American Son
by J.D. Finck
Summary: ** The sequel to Captain America - The Last Campaign. Seventeen years after the death of Steve Rogers, young Grant Riley discovers he is not who he thought he was, but is in fact the son of the legendary hero, Captain America. Facing an enemy seeking world domination, Grant must learn to accept his extraordinary legacy, while carving a path of his own.**
1. Chapter 1 Fortunate Son

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*****American Son *****

**Chapter 1**

**Fortunate Son**

America…

Sharon Riley stepped from the porch of her sturdy farmhouse and walked onto the wide lawn, which sloped gracefully down to the lane. Thin wisps of clouds drifted across the blue Oregon sky, as the late-day sun hung like a golden gem over the land. To the west, the clouds were heavier, tinged with gray. Rain was coming, perhaps three or four hours away, she estimated. Walking across the gravel driveway, she came to a timber fence, and leaned against it, shielding her eyes against the afternoon dazzle. The rumble of a diesel engine sounded across the field, coming from behind a stand of pine trees. Inhaling the good smell of freshly tilled earth, Sharon waited for the tractor to appear.

She had been something of a mystery to her neighbors when she took up this farm seventeen years ago. There was talk at first, about a single woman—a single _mother_ no less—taking on a five-hundred-acre farm, but the talk lessened as the farm prospered. Sharon was a quiet woman, who kept mostly to herself, but she was hard working, and that counted for much in rural Oregon, where the pioneer spirit lived still. Six years ago, a flash flood tore through the town of Newburgh, destroying much of downtown, and dozens of houses. Sharon worked day and night, side-by-side with the lifelong residents, saving those who could be saved, recovering those who were lost. In the following weeks, she helped rebuild the houses and business. After that, there was no more talk of her being an outsider. She was a private woman, a mystery still, but the people accepted her and her young son as part of the community.

Sharon pulled her flaxen hair into a ponytail, tying it off with a band. The few strands of silver-gray in her hair, along with the fine lines around her eyes, were her only signs of age. She was lean and fit, with the liquid grace of a dancer, but underlying it was a steely strength that seemed from more than farm work could account. She was attractive, beautiful even, but remote, and distant. That distance made her formidable, and ultimately unapproachable. Many men in the community had attempted to breach that distance and get to know her, but none had succeeded. She was part of the community…but only to a point.

As the rumble of the engine grew louder, Sharon gazed across the field, seeing the tractor come into view some quarter of a mile away. Given the noise of the engine, and with the distance, her voice wouldn't carry far. It wouldn't need to. She waved and called out.

"Grant!"

Her son looked up and waved back. He cranked the handle, raising the plow from the ground, and steered the tractor forward. He had grown so much this past year. Always big for his age, he was now over six-feet tall, and his frame was filling out. A boy only a year ago, he was becoming a man. Her mother's heart felt a small ache of pain. She was happy seeing him grow into manhood, but she wasn't ready to say goodbye to her little boy. It was more than that, of course. There were things she would have to tell him soon, secrets she had kept in the corner of her heart for seventeen plus years, out of sight, but never out of mind. When she finally told those secrets, would he understand? Could he forgive her for keeping the truth from him? She put those questions aside. The time for telling secrets was coming, but it was not yet here.

Grant shut the engine off, leapt to the soft turf and walked towards her, smiling. Another pang shot through Sharon's heart; he looked so much like his father, but never more so than when he smiled. Putting his hand on the top rail, he vaulted over the fence, landing lightly in front of her.

"I'm almost finished," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He kissed her cheek. "I'll have the corn planted by the weekend."

"There's plenty of time for that. Right now, I need you to run into town, pick up some supplies."

Sharon held out a credit card, and a small list of groceries. Grant took them, and then looked at her, expectantly.

"Is the carburetor in?"

He glanced at the pole barn with a hopeful smile. A battered but sturdy old Ford pickup sat parked under the roof, its hood opened, waiting patiently to be brought back to life.

"Yes," Sharon said, to which her son whopped in joy. It made her feel good to see him happy; she hated what she had to say next. "I also need you to stop at the post office. Next year's lesson plans just came in."

Grant's joy evaporated. "Mom, we talked about this. I want to finish my senior year at the high school. You said I could."

"I said I'd think about it. I'm not saying no," she added, seeing the look on his face. "We'll talk about it tonight, after dinner, okay?"

Grant's shoulders slumped. "_We'll talk._ That means you explaining why we should do it your way. This is my last year, mom, I want to go."

Sharon sighed. "Is this about Allison?"

"No," he snapped. He faltered under her probing stare. "Well…not only her. I need to be around kids my own age. I've been talking to coach Brennan. He want's me to go out for football."

Sharon's eyes flared angrily. "Football? Absolutely not, Grant!"

"You can't just make every decision for me! I want to be a normal kid, why is that so wrong? Why do you hate Allison?"

"Oh, Grant, I don't hate her, you know that. Allison's a sweet girl, and there's nothing wrong with wanting a normal life…but I can't let you put yourself at risk."

"What risk? I'm talking about going to high school! God, all my life, you've been telling me about risks, about enemies. Where are they, mom?"

Sharon's eyes hardened as she pointed to the horizon. "Out there, in the world. Oregon isn't the world, Grant. There are dangers that most people know nothing about, bad people with bad intent, just waiting for their moment to strike. Your father had enemies, and if they knew about you…"

Sharon took a breath, pulling in her emotions, making her voice was quiet again. She softened her eyes and looked at her son.

"Your safety is the most important thing in the world to me. I know I seem hard sometimes, unfair…but I'm only doing what I think is best."

Grant scuffed his work boot across the grass. "I can't live my entire life hiding away from the world. What good is being safe if I'm not happy?"

"Are you really so unhappy?" Sharon said quietly. "That's not what I want for you."

"I know," Grant sighed. "But you have to let me breathe. I need to be normal. I need…I need to know about my father."

Sharon froze for a moment. "I've told you about him."

"I'm not talking about his name. A few photos, some medals in a box—that doesn't tell me who he was. You tell me he was a soldier, but _who_ was he? Why did he have enemies who'd want to hurt us? Why won't you tell me who he was?"

"You deserve answers. I'll tell you about your father soon, I promise."

Grant looked at her, his pale blue eyes hooded with pain. "Soon. You've been telling me that my whole life." He walked away from her, speaking over his shoulder without looking back. "I'm going to school this fall."

Sharon watched Grant stalk over to the pole barn and bury himself under the hood of the old pickup. He'd spent a lot of time there this past year, partly because he wanted to get the truck running, but also to find distraction from loneliness and pain. That she was the cause of even a part of his loneliness and pain hurt her more than he would ever know. She had long ago mastered the art of concealing her own feelings, just as she had mastered the art of concealing the truth. The price that that skill had exacted from her was high. It had kept her son safe over the years…but it might end up costing her his love.

She watched Grant work on the old jalopy, his pain evident. Like his father, his emotions were always genuine, as was his character, shining like a beacon. Grant had not inherited her talent at deception, and for that, she was grateful. Her earlier thoughts came back to her, about how the time for telling secrets was not yet here. She nearly laughed at the bitter realization of how wrong she had been. Taking a deep breath, Sharon walked over to the barn. The time was here, now.

Grant was pulling on a chain lift, hoisting the motor from the pickup, a dozen feet in the air. Locking the chain in place, he wiped his hands on a rag and bent under the hood again. Sharon spoke, her voice quiet.

"You haven't eaten since breakfast. You must be starving. You're like your father that way, always hungry."

"I wouldn't know about that, would I?" he answered, his head still buried under the hood.

"We can change that. Come in, I'll fix us something to eat, and we can talk."

He looked up, closing the hood. The scowl on his face had softened, but the hurt was still there.

"I want to talk, but you never listen. I love you, mom…but it can't be just be your rules, with me having no say in my own life. I want to go to school. I want to go on dates and play sports. I want to hang out without giving detailed reports on everywhere I go. I want to be normal. Don't you want that for me? Don't you want me to be happy?"

Before Sharon could reply, a loud crack sounded overhead. She looked up, seeing the huge wooden beam holding the chain lift splinter, and then fell, the chain hoist and the motor plummeting with it. Grant cried out, leaping forward, as Sharon dropped to the floor, knowing there was no chance to avoid the collision. She closed her eyes, waiting for the clattering chain and the splintered oak beam to crush her…

A second passed, and the noise ended. Sharon slowly opened her eyes, dust filling the air. Grant stood over her, with part of the beam leaning against his back. His left hand, raised above her, held the chain, with the motor dangling from the end, inches above her head.

She stood, taking care to avoid the motor. "You can put it down, son," she said.

He slowly lowered the motor, which thumped heavily to the floor, the chain clinking as it fell. Sharon went to his side and wedged her shoulder against the heavy beam leaning across his back. With a grunt, she pivoted it away from him. It fell to the floor with a reverberating bang. Sharon turned to him.

"Are you okay?"

"Just a little sore," he said, rotating his shoulder, flexing his back with a slight grimace.

"I don't doubt it—that beam must have weighed three hundred pounds, the motor twice as much. Looks like I'm not the only one who's been keeping secrets. How long have you been able to do things like this?"

"I…I don't know. You were in trouble, I had to do something. It was adrenaline."

"Adrenaline, I see. Last month in the north forty, when you lifted that fallen tree off the calf, was that adrenaline? Tree must have weighed a thousand pounds, not to mention you carried the calf half a mile back to the barn."

He stared at his mother, shocked, "Have you been spying on me?"

"I watch out for you, Grant. It's what I do."

Sharon reached out and brushed the dust from his short blonde hair, and then hugged him tightly. The embrace lasted several seconds. She knew she was saying goodbye to her little boy. She pulled back and looked at him.

"I know you want to go to school, play sports, be…normal. I'm sorry, but you can't. You can be many things, Grant but not normal. You're very special, and it's time I told you the truth about who you are. Come on, I want to show you something."

They walked out of the pole barn and headed up the rising slope behind the house, making their way towards a small cluster of trees that sat on the crest of the hill. His mother stopped at huge oak tree, towering above the others. Its branches stretched high in the late afternoon sky, and its roots sank deep in the soil, very big, very strong, and very old. Though he had climbed this tree often as a young boy and knew its branches well, Grant felt as if he were seeing it for the first time.

Sharon turned to him. She always seemed so strong, so certain and confident, but now she looked vulnerable. Grant would almost have thought she looked afraid, if that emotion wasn't impossible to associate with her. She laid her hand on the tree, almost lovingly, her palm resting on an old carving cut deep into the bark.

"Grant...this is your father," Sharon said, her voice quiet.

Grant walked closer and looked at the name carved in the tree. He'd seen it many times, but never paid it any great attention. It was just a name from the past, a boy from generations earlier, or so he had thought. "Steve Rogers," he read aloud. He turned to his mother, confused. "But our name is Riley."

"Riley was my mother's maiden name. I used it when you were born. I needed to disappear from my old life, so I had to lose my name. I was Sharon Carter…and your father's real name was Steven Grant Rogers. He lived here, on this farm, as a young man."

Grant moved her hand from the tree and read the entire carving.

"Steve Rogers…1935."

"That was the year he started college," his mother said, her voice quiet, her thoughts far away. "He must have carved this right before he left."

"That was almost a hundred years ago. I don't understand."

Grant was shocked to see tears in Sharon's eyes. He had never seen her cry before and the sight cut into his heart, driving out his own feelings of confusion and anger. He wanted to hug her, but he hesitated, and the moment passed. She dried her eyes and spoke.

"I'm sorry for keeping the truth from you. I'd like a chance to explain it…and when you know the whole story, maybe you'll even be able to forgive me. Let's go to the house, son. Let's talk."

Saying no more, his mother turned and headed down the hill. Slowly, Grant followed, walking towards the frame farmhouse that had been his home all his life. It seemed changed to him, now—everything seemed changed. The world was different, unknown…and so was he. Whatever it was his mother had to tell him, he knew it would change his life forever.

**. . .**

Nearly a mile distant, just beyond the freshly plowed field, the figure of a man lay silent and still in the tall grass, just on the edge of the deep woods. Dressed in tactical camouflage, he had his rifle trained on the woman and the boy, watching them through the high-powered scope. Slowly lifting his wrist to his mouth, he spoke into his communicator, his voice a whisper, lost on the wind.

"X-ray nine, calling command post. I have visual confirmation. It's him."

A voice came over the small device fitted in his ear.

"X-ray nine, this is command post. Are you positive? We've had two false leads already this month."

The figure smiled. "It's him."

"The strike team is approaching due south, they'll be at your coordinates in thirty minutes. The boy is to be taken alive and unharmed. Make sure your team understands."

"Affirmative. The woman?"

"Kill her."

The line went dead. The man trained his sight on the mother and her son, just now walking into the house. He set his watch and hunkered down to wait. Twenty-nine minutes later, the nearly inaudible sound of helicopter blades cut the air, stealth aircraft, cloaked and silent. The aircraft hovered just above the tree line, as twenty agents rappelled to the field. The man stood, the others converging on him. He pointed forward, making the 'eyes on target' sign. The strike team drew their weapons. As twilight tinged the country skyline, they moved toward the farmhouse, like silent shadows of death.


	2. Chapter 2 Still of the Night

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**Chapter 2**

**Still of the Night**

Grant sat at the kitchen table, staring off in the distance, as the late afternoon sun slanted through the side windows. His mother sat across from him, her hands clasped together, waiting for him to process the news she had just delivered. Dinner simmered on the stove, but food was a million miles from his thoughts. The seconds ticked on, and still Grant stayed quiet, confusion churning in his soul. An hour ago, his life, frustrating as it sometimes was, made sense. An hour ago, he knew who he was. His mother kept silent, waiting for him to speak. Finally, he did.

"My father was Captain America. I don't know what to do with that."

He got up and paced. He went to the sink and poured a glass of water, which he downed in one big draw. Filling the glass again, he took another drink, and turned to his mother.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was waiting for the right time."

"Anytime was the right time," he snapped. "You waited until I was seventeen. All my life I thought my father was a soldier named Riley, I thought _my_ name was Riley…"

"Your name _is_ Riley, and your father _was_ a soldier."

Grant laughed, bitterly. "Dress it up all you want, but you lied to me. I deserved to know the truth."

"You're hardly able to handle the truth now, Grant. How could you have dealt with it at five years old?"

"You…you could have helped me understand."

"The risk was too great. You might have let the truth slip out."

"Would that have been so bad? Captain America was a hero—people loved him!"

His mother got up, walked to the stove, and flipped the omelet. "Pour me a coffee," she said, turning up the gas flame under the bacon, which began to sizzle and pop. "Do you want toast?"

"I don't want anything," he said, setting the steaming coffee mug on the table. "I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten since breakfast. You'll eat," she said, setting out plates. Grant sat, staring into space again. Sharon cut the omelet in two with the spatula and put the bigger piece on Grant's plate. Seconds later, she laid out the bacon and toast, and then sat and drank her coffee. Grant picked at the omelet, absently eating small bites. His mother sighed, and then spoke.

"Your father _was_ a hero. Most people loved and admired him…but not everyone. There are people who would hurt you, simply because you _are_ his son. That's not the worst thing. What you did tonight, catching that motor, shaking off the beam, it's because of the Super Soldier Serum. Your father passed it on to you, and there are people who would stop at nothing to get their hands on you because of it. I kept the truth from you because it was the only way I could keep you safe."

He picked up a slice of bacon, taking a bite morosely. "That doesn't make it right. It wasn't fair that I didn't know the truth."

Sharon set her mug down. "No, it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that your father died in my arms, leaving me to raise you on my own. It wasn't fair when the town flooded a few years ago, killing nine people. Life isn't always fair, Grant, you're old enough to know that by now. I just told you the truth about who you are, and you're angry with me. Okay, you have a right to be angry. The question is, what are you going to do with it? You can go on blaming me for keeping the truth from you, blaming your father for dying, blaming everyone until you're eaten up with bitterness and anger…or you can take this news and make something positive of it. So, what are you going to do?"

Grant looked at his mother, his mouth hanging open. "I…I'm going to get a drink of water."

He went to the sink, thoughts churning in his mind. Maybe he did have a right to be angry…but he was acting like a petulant child, wallowing in his hurt feelings. He had lost his father, but his mother had lost the man she loved. He filled his glass, and drank, gazing out the window at the fields he had plowed earlier, back when his life made sense. He was still angry, it would be awhile before he worked his way through these feelings, but the resentment was gone. He took the attitude from his voice as he spoke.

"So…you were a SHIELD agent?"

In the windows reflection, he saw his mother smile.

"I was."

"That's pretty cool. Probably should have guessed something like that. I was ten years old before I figured out not everyone's mom taught them jujitsu, and how to field strip an energy rifle." He laughed, and then grew quiet. "What was he like? I mean, I know he was a hero…but what was he like?"

"He was kind," she said. "It may not sound like much to say someone was kind, but that isn't so. It takes strength to be truly kind. Captain America was something your father took great pride in…but it was only part of who he was. Steve Rogers was a real person. He was a leader, not because he was domineering, but because of his character, his decency, his kindness. The mask and the shield were symbols, but it was the _man_ that people trusted, and he never took that trust for granted."

Sharon got up and stood beside Grant, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Actually, he was like you. Of everything you could have inherited from your father, I'm happiest that you have his good heart."

Grant started to turn to her but stopped. "Huh," he said, staring out the window. "That was weird."

"What was?" his mother asked.

"It's nothing. I thought I saw a little glimmer of light."

"Where? Point it out to me." Sharon said, standing beside him. Her tone of voice was cool and hard. He knew that tone well, it was her 'all business' tone.

"It was out there, in the field I plowed today. It was only for a second, but it looked like a blue shimmer of—hey, there it is again."

Sharon pulled him away from the window, shoving him back from sight. He started to protest, but she cut him off.

"Lock the doors," she said, moving to the hallway. She opened the fuse box and hit the main breaker, cutting the power. The lights went out, although there was still enough sunlight coming in from the windows to see. Grant called out.

"Mom, what is it?"

"Those bad people I told you about? They're here."

She came back to the kitchen, her movements swift, but controlled and precise, without panic. She grabbed a knife from the butcher block and cut a small hole in the gas line to the stove. Sticking the knife in her belt, she grabbed a pack of matches from the side drawer and stuck them in the toaster. She pushed the lever down and laid the toaster on its side, pointing it at the stove, which was emitting a slow leak of gas into the room. Grant stood there, rooted to the spot. When she saw him, her eyes flashed angrily.

"Grant, do as I say! Lock the doors, and keep away from the windows. Get your rifle and shotgun, and all the shells you can find."

That broke his inaction. He hurried off. After locking all the doors, he took a deep breath, trying to summon the calm that seemed second nature for his mother…but his heart was racing. He grabbed the guns and the shells, and started for the kitchen, but Sharon met him in the dining room. She pulled the kitchen door closed and locked it, pointing at the front door on the other end of the room.

"That's where they'll come first. It's also our exit. Take the buffet and block the window," she said, pointing to the massive oak buffet sitting next to them.

"Mom, your good china…"

"Do it, Grant, hurry," she said, ducking into her office, a small room just off the dining room.

Grant set the guns down and grabbed the buffet. With a heft, he lifted it from the floor, the china inside crashing. It had only been a few weeks since this power had come to him, and he was still getting use to it. He had always been stronger than most kids his age, but he was far stronger than that now. He set the buffet on its side, and rammed it against the window, wedging it into the plaster wall. The room grew dark. He took the poker from the fireplace and drove it into the floor behind the buffet, securing it. It suddenly dawned on him; he was the son of Captain America. Sharon returned with a backpack over one shoulder, an energy rifle slung over the other. She grabbed his arm, pulling him down behind the sofa.

"I've called an old friend for help, but he won't be here in time. We're on our own." She set her rifle on maximum and looked at him. "The first attack will come through the front door, but it's only a feint." She pointed upstairs. "That's the next attack point, teargas, to drive us into the kitchen. The main force will stay outside, until they have us pinned down. We can't let that happen. We have to get outside."

"But…won't we have a better chance to fight them off from in here?"

Sharon shook her head. "That's what they want, leaving us trapped, on their terms. They have the numbers. We have to be smarter."

"What do we do once we get outside?"

"We wipe them out. They've come for you, Grant. I'm not going to let that happen." Sharon's eyes suddenly narrowed. "They're here," she whispered.

The front door crashed open, tearing the lock from the wall. Sharon jammed her rifle under the couch and fired off a round of energy blasts. There was screaming from the doorway. Grant clutched his shotgun, his mind racing, unsure what to do. The sound of shattering glass came from the window, and blows thudding against the buffet, which held against the attackers. Noise came from upstairs, very quiet, but Grant heard it. His senses had sharpened when this power came on him a few short weeks ago; he could hear things others couldn't; he had the vision of a hawk—he could even smell things better. Despite the gas coming from the kitchen, he caught the scent of the men upstairs, the leather of their boots, their sweat, the gun oil of their weapons—and something bitter, acrid…

"Tear gas!" he shouted to his mother, seconds before the smoking canisters clanked down the stairs. Sharon grabbed the shotgun from him, and fired both barrels at the plaster wall of the stairwell. There were shouts of pain from the stairs as smoke filled the room. Sharon pulled something from her backpack and handed it to him, a gas mask.

"Get those canisters out of here," she said, coughing. He wrapped the mask around her, and charged the canisters, kicking them out through the shattered door. A man jumped from the stairs, landing on him, as a second man raced through the door, tackling him around the legs. Sharon started to his side, but a blast of gunfire from the doorway drove her back.

"Grant!" she shouted, returning fire as she dove for cover.

A third man raced down the stairs, holding thick steel shackles with wires and electronic devices attached. "Hold him," he shouted to the others as he struggled to grab Grant's wrists. Gritting his teeth, Grant clutched the man's vest and hurled him outside, crashing him into the attacker who was firing at his mother. He clubbed the man holding his legs, driving him to the floor, unconscious. The third man pulled an energy wand from his belt, and rammed it into Grant's side, sending a massive electric charge through him. Grant fell to his knees, reeling, as the man raised the wand again…

Sharon flew at him, driving a straight kick to his face. He rolled back, and got to his feet, a knife flashing in his hand as he advanced, the blade weaving like a cobra. Sharon blazed into action, grasping the man's wrist and twisting, forcing his hand backwards. He dropped the knife, crying out as his wrist snapped. He reached out with his other hand, but Sharon spun, avoiding his grasp, and bringing her elbow crashing into his temple. He staggered and pulled his gun. Sharon whipped the kitchen knife from her belt, driving it into the man's neck, and he fell. Grant lurched to his feet.

"Mom, look out!"

Sharon spun, as two attackers charged the doorway, drawing their weapons. She was faster, scooping the energy pistol from the floor and firing, dropping them. She turned and helped Grant to his feet. "Are you alright?" she asked, her cool precision gone for the moment, replaced by motherly concern.

"I think so," Grant answered, his strength quickly returning. Sharon started to speak, but he shushed her, cocking his ear.

"They're in the kitchen," he whispered. There was a quiet sound from the fuse box in the back room, and the lights blinked on. Sharon grabbed Grant's arm, pulling him down, putting the couch between them and the kitchen. A second passed, and then a massive explosion ripped through the air, slamming the couch into them, driving them across the floor. Grant threw the couch off them, coughing. Smoke filled what was left of the room, as the smoldering remains of their kitchen fell around them.

"You're bleeding," Grant said, helping Sharon to her feet. She brushed his concern aside, loading a fresh magazine to her gun.

"Find a weapon," she said. "We have to get outside, now, while they're disorganized."

Grant picked up his shotgun, loading both barrels with shells from his pocket. Sharon stood, gun held at her side, her eyes cool and precise. Mom was gone. The SHIELD agent was here.

"A strike team is twenty fighters," she said, moving to the door, staying clear from sight. "We've cut them in half. There'll be someone posted outside this door, but the main force will be west, outside the kitchen, with the sun at their backs. We hit them hard, no holding back. Can you do that?"

Killing, it was a horrible thought. He looked about the shattered remains of his house, and looked at his mother, at blood running down her face. He lifted his shotgun and nodded.

"You have your father's speed. Use it, blitz them. I'll be right behind you. Stay clear of the propane tanks."

Sharon held up her hand, giving a silent count. 3…2…1. They charged outside, where the sky was darkening with twilight and from the rain clouds coming from the west. Grant scanned the tree line ahead, spotting that faint blue shimmer. He took aim, but his mother was faster, firing at the hidden assassin, the invisibility blinking off as he fell. A sound came from above. Grant looked up and quickly rolled aside as a high tech net fell on the spot he was just at, blue sparks crackling in the tall grass. A dark figure jumped from the upstairs window, a stun wand in his hand. Grant swung his shotgun by the barrel, the stock shattering as the attacker slammed against the side of the house.

"Let's go," Sharon shouted, sprinting off to the other side of the house.

Dropping his ruined gun, he raced after Sharon, quickly overtaking her, moving faster than he ever had. His senses seemed to adjust—he was _seeing_ faster, _thinking_ faster_. _Rounding the house, he saw ten attackers, two of them picking themselves up off the ground, stunned by the explosion of seconds ago. The others were shaken, but readying themselves, their weapons drawn. Someone spotted him and shouted.

"It's the boy! Take him alive!"

Grant ran at the men, who seemed to be moving in slow motion. He was glad he didn't have a gun; he wanted them to feel this. He slammed a punch at the first man he came to, shattering his jaw, sending him flying. Two assassins lunged at him, but he swept at them backhand, scattering them. A stun blast hit him from behind, and he tumbled over, falling to his knees. More blasts rained down on him and Grant felt himself going under, until shots flew past him, taking out the attackers.

He struggled to his feet as Sharon raced forward, firing at the remaining forces. She dropped three of them, when the leader returned fire. Grant watched in horror as a blast caught Sharon square in the chest. She fell, unmoving, her body smoking.

A primal scream tore from Grant as he charged the man, crashing into him like a runaway train, tumbling him twenty feet across the lawn. Grant faced the remaining three men, his eyes burning fury as he ran. A stun blast hit him, but he shook it off, and smashed into them like a battering ram. He grabbed one of the men and spun, hurling him into the others. All three fell in a tangle of broken limbs, unconscious.

Grant stalked towards the leader, who was struggling to his feet. "You killed my mother," he said, his voice choked with emotion.

The man pulled a stun wand from his belt. "Keep back," he said, swinging the weapon back and forth, as he stumbled in retreated.

Grant kept coming. The man lunged with the stun wand, but Grant grabbed his hand and squeezed. The man dropped to his knees, screaming as his wrist shattered. Grant continued to squeeze, his voice trembling in sorrow and rage as he spoke.

"You killed my mother!"

He clutched the man's throat and lifted him from the ground. The man thrashed, trying to pull free of the crushing grip, until his eyes fluttered closed. Grant kept squeezing, until a voice called out weakly behind him.

"_G…Grant_…"

He turned, and saw Sharon lifting her head from the ground. He let the attacker fall in a heap and ran to her. Dropping to his knees, he lifted her head onto his lap and stroked her face.

"Mom, I thought they'd killed you."

She reached into the backpack, taking out a small device. "Field dampener," she said, her voice weak but growing stronger. "Help me to my feet, get me to cover," she said, pointing to the elm that stood next to the driveway.

"It's okay," he reassured, half carrying her. "We got them."

"Some are only unconscious," she said, using the tree to steady her aim as she trained her gun on the smoking hull of their house. "They may have air backup. Remember, look for that blue glow."

Grant scanned the dark sky, seeing nothing at first. He kept looking, finally spotting the faint blue shimmer.

"Found it. Helicopter, just over the deep woods. I'm going for it."

"Grant, no—it's too dangerous!"

"They want me alive, remember? You're the one they're trying to kill…and I'm not going to let that happen. Understood?"

She smiled, as tears gathered in her eyes. She slipped the field dampener into his pocket, and then reached into her backpack, pulling out an energy pistol and two grenades. Pressing them into his hands, she wiped her eyes. Her expression was hard again; the SHIELD agent had returned.

"Go get them."

Grant dashed off, his boots ripping out huge chunks of sod as he ran. Without pause, he leapt the fence, clearing it by a dozen feet. If he had been moving fast before, he was all but flying now, covering half a mile in seconds. He heard the helicopter rotors beating quietly in the air and spotted the faint blue haze. Shots flashed at him, blasts ripping into the ground to his left and right, trying to drive him off. He didn't need the field dampener; they were taking pains not to hit him. He ran on, increasing his speed, as he pulled the pin from one of the grenades. He threw too hard; the grenade overshot the helicopter, exploding a dozen yards behind it. Still, the explosion rocked them, the blue haze wavering in place. More blasts came at him, far closer than before, zeroing in. He skidding to a stop, and took aim, calculating the distance. He pulled the pin and threw the grenade, as a line of fire blazed towards him, drawing closer, closer…

The grenade exploded, and the helicopter blinked into sight, wavering in the air. The craft turned, and flew off, trailing smoke. Grant took the pistol from the waistband of his torn and dirty jeans, and ran after the helicopter, firing until it disappeared over the trees, making good its escape. A steady rain began to fall. Grant put the pistol back in his waistband, and then he remembered Sharon, all alone, against the killers. He turned and ran, covering the distance in seconds.

As he leapt back over the fence, he looked to the tree where he'd left his mother. A man stood next to her, holding a gun to his side. Grant pulled his own gun, pointing it at the man.

"Put your hands up!"

Sharon stepped forward. "Grant, he's a friend!"

Grant ran over, skidding to a stop, nearly slipping in the rain-slick grass. He took a quick look at the house, relieved to see that the rain was quenching the fire. He turned to the man, who clearly wasn't one of the attackers. For one thing, he was dressed in khakis and a flannel shirt. For another, he was older, gray haired. Old, but lean, and fit, with a tough, quiet competence. Grant looked at his mother.

"What about the others?"

"Taken care of," the man said, holding up a small strap, inlaid with circuitry and glowing wires. "Neural collar, they won't be causing trouble. Backup's on the way."

"Are you a cop?"

The man chuckled. "No. Let's leave it at that," he said. He walked forward, scrutinizing him. "You've grown a bit since I saw you last."

Grant stuck the energy pistol in his waistband, and looked at the man, puzzled. "Do I know you?"

"No, but I know you," the old man said. He looked at the strike team, scattered on the lawn, and then turned back to Grant. "I knew your father, too. Seems you take after him. That's a good thing."

Grant looked to his mother his expression perplexed. She smiled, and walked forward, putting a hand on the older man's shoulder.

"Grant, I want you to meet an old friend of mine. This is Nick Fury."


	3. Chapter 3 Heartbreaker

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**Chapter 3**

**Heartbreaker**

Oregon

The downpour pelted Grant as he stood on the lawn, plastering his short blonde hair to his head, soaking into his clothes. Thunder rumbled in the dark sky, and despite the warm spring night, a chill invaded his bones. The house he had lived in all his life lay in smoking ruins, a perfect metaphor for his life. The events of the past few hours had upended his world, and his mind was racing to catch up. He was oblivious to the rain, other than it had quenched the fire ravaging the house. His mother and Nick Fury stood under the elm tree, talking quietly, but he was oblivious to them as well. His eyes drifted to the leader of the attack force, lying unconscious on the grass where he'd dropped him only moments ago. As the rain slowed to a small but steady shower, his mother walked up behind him, putting her hand on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," he said, his voice quiet.

"A lot's happened tonight. If you want to talk about it…"

Grant turned to her. "That man almost killed you, mom…and then I almost killed him. I never thought I could kill someone, but I guess it's in my blood."

Sharon stayed quiet a moment, taking a deep breath before she answered.

"I've killed people in the line of duty, including some of these men tonight. I understand if it troubles you—it troubles _me_, it troubled your father, too. I want you to understand that about him. Your father detested killing."

"He was a soldier. He must have killed men."

"There were times in combat when he had to take a life, yes. But after he revived, he did his best to avoid killing an enemy, even at the risk of losing his own life. In fact, in all the years I knew him, he never intentionally took a life, and believe me, there were times when that was enormously difficult."

"But he killed the Red Skull, didn't he? I mean, he's famous for it."

"It's complicated, Grant. The Skull wasn't human. In most ways that count, he wasn't even alive. Johann Schmidt was a monster, a literal monster, threatening the entire world. Your father destroyed him, but that isn't the same as taking a human life. These men came here threatening _your_ life, and you had a right to protect yourself. Sometimes a person has to do something bad, to prevent something worse from happening."

"Isn't that moral relativism?" Grant saw the look on his mother's face and smiled wanly at her. "Hey, you're the one who had me study philosophy, remember?"

Sharon nodded. "Philosophy is important, morality and ethics, too. But sometimes they run up against hard choices in the real world. I'm no philosopher, and I certainly don't have all the answers, but I know this much …you're no killer," she said, putting her hand to his cheek.

Grant smiled, but it showed strain, as if some pressing thought or decision was weighing on him. Sharon knew this wasn't the time to press him, yet she felt herself helpless not to; this was her son, and he was in pain. She started to speak, but Grant quieted her, and began scanning the night sky, his expression tense.

"Helicopters," he said, taking the gun from his waistband. He stepped in front of his mother, shielding her with his body. Sharon felt a lump in her throat. He was his father's son.

"You have good ears," Fury said, coming over to them. "Those are stealth choppers. I called in a SHEILD rapid-action response team. They'll figure out what's going on."

"Seems pretty clear to me," Grant said, putting his gun away. "There's something in my blood that people want. My mom nearly paid the price for it."

"Better people than this have gone up against your mom and failed," Fury said. "We'll handle it, believe me. That's why I came."

Grant looked at Fury, puzzled. "How did you get here so fast? Don't tell me the head of SHIELD lives in Newburg?"

Fury laughed. "I haven't been the head of SHIELD for a long time. I live in Seattle, happily retired. As for how I got here…"

Fury motioned to the pole barn, where a vintage sports car sat gleaming under the soft glow of the security light. Grant's eyes lit up; he hadn't noticed the car in all the confusion.

"Oh wow, Ferrari Berlinetta," he said, walking towards the gleaming red sports car. He turned back to Fury. "Twelve cylinders, 450 horsepower. What's she top out at, 220, 230?"

"Oh, a bit higher," Fury said, grinning. "My girl can really fly. Want to take a look?"

Grant took a deep breath and bottled his enthusiasm away. "Maybe later. Right now, I want to poke around the house, see what I can salvage."

"It's not safe," Sharon said, quietly. "There's been too much damage. Let's wait for the team to arrive."

"I just fought twenty assassins and an attack helicopter. I think I can handle a shaky house. I'm Captain America's son, remember?"

Sharon reached out to him. Grant hesitated a moment, and then turned and headed off to the smoldering house. As Sharon watched him go, Fury walked up behind her.

"You raised a good kid there, Sharon."

"He's angry at me for keeping the truth from him," she said, her voice hushed.

"Give him time. He'll come around."

Sharon turned to Fury, her expression heavy with emotion. He wasn't used to seeing her this way; vulnerable. Once upon a time, Sharon Carter was one of his most valuable assets, the most competent—and the deadliest—agent in the game. The years hadn't eroded her skills, but she was a mother now, and her heart was breaking.

"Time's never been my friend, Nick. It always came between Steve and me. Now it's coming between Grant and me, as well. I wanted to protect him from all this," she said, looking at the attackers scattered about the lawn. "I thought if I tried hard enough, I could hold the world at bay, keep him safe a little while longer…but the world's found him, and now I'm out of time."

As Fury searched for the right words, the quiet sound of muffled rotor blades cut the night air. Sharon and Fury looked to their right, where the first SHIELD helicopter was landing in the field. The crew leapt out, guns drawn, and quickly set about securing the area. The last member of the team stepped off the chopper, a tall man, cool, competent, in command. After speaking briefly with one of the other agents, he spotted Fury and Sharon, and walked towards them. Fury turned to Sharon.

"I'm probably the last person on earth who should be giving advice about raising a kid, Sharon, but I'll share one thing I know. There comes a time you have to step back and let them find their own way. The more you interfere, the more they'll resent you for it. Trust me on this."

As the SHIELD agent approached, he touched the com-unit affixed to his ear. Behind him, a second chopper was touching down.

"Bravo-Two, this is team leader. Take the hostiles into custody, then join up with Bravo-One and set a half-mile perimeter. I want this area locked down. If a field mouse shows its head, I want to know about it. Keep me posted."

The agent walked up to them, nodding at Sharon.

"Agent Carter." He looked about the lawn. "Looks like you've been busy. My files say you have a son. Is he alright?"

"Yes. he's in the house right now—neither of us was seriously injured."

"That's good. Any idea what this was all about? You've been out of the game for a few years now. This was a serious action."

Sharon was quiet a moment before answering. "I suppose some enemies have long memories. I don't know what it was about."

The agent stared at her for several seconds, measuring her words. "We'll have to see what the investigation uncovers. I'll want to talk to you and your son, later." His hard edge softened slightly. "You're something a legend in the Division. It's an honor to meet you," he said, extending his hand.

"Thank you, but actually, we've met," Sharon said, shaking his hand. "You were quite a bit younger. I doubt you remember."

If this surprised the man, he didn't let it show. He turned to Fury, the moonlight gleaming on his shaved head. With his dark SHIELD uniform, and his dark brown skin, he was like a shadow, blending into the night. He stared at Fury for several seconds before speaking.

"Colonel. I'm surprised to see you here. Being as you're retired."

"Yeah, well, I like to keep my hand in."

Another SHIELD agent came over to them. She nodded curtly at Sharon and Fury, before addressing the team leader.

"We've rounding up the assailants, Lieutenant Jackson. I'm ready to begin interrogation on your say-so."

"Thank you, agent Patel. Get with Henson and monitor the prisoners. I'll be with you in a moment."

The woman nodded and hurried off. Fury stared at the team leader, a quizzical look on his face

"Jackson?"

"It's my name."

"It's your mother's name, but I guess that's your prerogative. By the way, congratulations on your promotion. Deputy Director of Field Agents. Well earned."

The agent shot Fury an icy look. "You keeping tabs on me, Colonel?"

"That's _my _prerogative, Marcus. A father likes to know how his son's doing."

"I see. Well, I need to get with my people. _My_ people, Colonel. I remind you, you're retired." Marcus turned to Sharon. "I'll be checking in later, agent Carter."

Marcus walked off to join his team. Sharon put her hand on his arm, and Fury let out a weary sigh.

"Like I said…I'm the last person to be giving advice on parenthood."

**. . .**

Grant made his way up the stairs, moving with deliberate speed. From the sound of it, the helicopters would arrive any minute; he had only minutes to act. He was relieved to find the damage wasn't as severe as he feared. The walls were cracked, and plaster dust was everywhere. The kitchen was gone, obliterated in the explosion, but the rest of the house was mostly intact. There was smoke damage, leaving everything coated with soot, but the house might be salvageable. That thought brought a pang of bittersweet joy. He hurried down the hallway to his bedroom. Opening the door, he paused. He shouldn't be wasting time this way, but a thought occurred, overwhelming him. Had this been his father's room?

His father. All his life, he'd wondered about the man. It almost seemed that he could feel his presence now, as if it permeated the walls of this old farmhouse. Grant looked about him, through the darkness, and the haze of smoke still in the air.

"I…I wish I knew you," he said, quietly. "I wish you were here now. Mom needs you…so do I."

Grant sniffed and wiped his hand across his face. There wasn't time for this. The choppers were almost here, he couldn't allow his emotions to delay him. He quickly gathered up some clothes—a couple pair of blue jeans, some tee shirts, underwear and socks—and tossed them into his gym bag. He took a last look at his room, feeling ghosts watching, and closed the door.

He hurried to his mother's room. The damage was greater here, the furniture shaken and scattered, the haze of smoke heavier. Seeing the damage only reinforced his decision; he had to leave. His mother had nearly died tonight trying to protect him. He wouldn't let that happen. There were bad actors who wanted to get their hands on him. Fine, let them try…but he wouldn't allow his mother to become a target again. Looking about, he found her purse lying near the bed. Feeling the red brand of guilt, he opened her wallet and took out all the cash, maybe five-hundred dollars, and stuffed it into his pocket. There was a notepad in the purse. Grant dashed off a brief message, and stepped out of the room, closing the door with the note wedged in it, making it impossible to miss. He rushed down the stairs, hearing the choppers touchdown. There were ammo clips lying about the dining room floor. He scooped them up, stuffing them into the gym bag; he didn't know if they were a match for his energy pistol, but there was no time to check. He'd have to hope for the best. It was time to go.

He stepped out through the shattered front door, and froze—voices were approaching, SHIELD agents, judging by the chatter. It was nearly two hundred yards to the cover of the north woods; he wouldn't be able to make it before they spotted him. Desperate, Grant grabbed a rock and tossed it high and far to the side where the agents were approaching. A second later, there was a muffled thump, out in the darkness. The chatter from the agents stopped, and they headed off to check the noise. Grant tore off across the front lawn, leaping the small country lane that crossed in front of the house he had lived in all of his life. He dashed across the open field and disappeared into the woods.

* * *

Six thousand miles away

She walked into the room, aware of every eye trying not to stare at her. She stopped, and looked about the command room, sending her presence out, invisible tendrils eating its way into the skin of her people, penetrating their pores, invading their bloodstreams. Though some had worked in her service for many years, their immune systems could not compensate for the formula she employed, for she constantly changed its makeup, tweaking it, perfecting it, targeting different neural receptors with each derivation of her venom.

It was more than mere chemical concoction that accounted for her power; it was the _allure_ of her. All felt it, the duel edge of love-and-fear, of lust-and-loss, of pleasure-and-pain. There was an otherworldly nature to her. She had died once, and returned. The ninja assassins known as The Hand had brought her back to life, with the plan to make her their vassal, a tool in their arsenal, ignorant of the force they had brought into their midst. Within a year, she had broken them, brought them under her thrall. Now, they bent the knee to her. With them in _her_ arsenal, she set about building her power base.

She had done it in secret. The great powers of the world were utterly unaware of her rising…but that would soon change. Her time was almost come. She smiled and settled her enthusiasm. There were matters to attend to. Crossing the floor, she took her seat, and gazed at her people, who stood waiting, as though incapable of action without her leave. Her eye lingered a moment on her Chief of Communications, a comely young woman, a dalliance, perhaps. She directed a thought at the woman, as a cloud of pheromones drifter over her. She took pleasure at seeing the woman shudder, ever so slightly. Satisfied, she turned her attention to business. With a voice like jasmine smoke, the woman known only as Viper addressed her key assistant.

"What news from our American operatives?"

"Our agents in Washington are in position, as are our people in the media," the man replied. "They are maintaining their cover until the signal. We've intercepted a communiqué from an AIM strike force. It might be nothing, but—"

"If it is AIM, it is not _nothing_," Viper said, coolly. "What did it say?"

"It was cryptic. It seems AIM dispatched a force to a rural area of the American North West. Mostly forests and farmland. What a tactical military unit would be seeking in such a place is unknown, but—"

Viper sighed, her eyebrow rising incrementally. It froze the man in place, and he quickly regrouped.

"Forgive me, madam Viper. The communiqué read _Bravo-One reporting. Contact established, result: Positive. Rogers's son located. _That was the entire message."

Viper's cool veneer faltered. "What name did you just say?"

The man looked at his data pad. "Rogers, madam Viper. Was I right to bring this matter to your attention?"

She stayed silent for a pass of time. When her composure was back in place, she spoke. "It may be nothing…but it may be something of great value. You will receive a triple bonus, Mister Zhao."

The man smiled broadly and bowed. "Thank—"

Viper turned away from the man, and spoke to the woman operating the communication center, beaming a tantalizing look at her.

"Miss Yamada, has the Egyptian team checked in?"

"Not yet, madam Viper," the woman answered, her cheeks flush.

"Contact the team leader."

The woman complied. Seconds later, the line was established, and a man's face appeared on the massive video screen on the far wall. Only it was not a face; it was a mask. Under the fabric of that mask was a ferocious, wolfish grin, bespeaking a voracious appetite, and an animal lust. Viper smiled. Even half-a-world away, her effect on the man was complete.

"Brock. How goes the search?"

"I've got the team back on track. Had to crack a few heads. We'll have that temple located soon. Getting to it will be another matter. The Egyptian government watches these archeological sites like hawks."

"I will deal with that when the time comes. I'm sending a jet to pick you up. I've a mission for you in the United States."

The man frowned, his expression clear even through his mask. "What the hell? I just got here! They had this job good and screwed. If I leave now—"

"Brock. I need you to go to the States. It may be important."

"And you can't send someone else?"

Viper smiled. "Do you remember your old friend Steven? It seems that AIM thinks he may have had a son…and that they have found him. Of course, if this matter does not interest you, I can send another operative to investigate."

"Like hell you will," Brock Rumlow answered. "If it's true, he's mine."

Viper smiled. "No, Brock. If he is truly the Captain's son, then he is mine. He is not to be harmed. Is this understood?"

The dreaded assassin known as Crossbones, simmered in silent anger for a moment. Then he let out a short bark of laughter.

"I won't kill him, but that's all I can promise. If he's really Cappy's son, it won't be easy catching him without a little bodily harm. Damn! This is the best news I've had in a dog's age."

"I thought you might feel this way. Expect the jet to arrive this evening. Viper out."

The connection was cut, and the screen went dead. Viper turned to her assistant.

"Is there anything else of critical importance in this briefing?"

"No, madam Viper."

"Then table it. I am retiring to my quarters. Do not disturb me unless it is important. There's much I need to consider."

Viper rose from her chair and walked to the door. Once there, she stopped, and turned. "Miss Yamada. Report to my quarters in an hour. There are matters I wish to…discuss with you."

"Y…yes, Madam Viper. Shall I bring any materials?"

Viper smiled. "Just yourself."

Saying no more, Viper left the room. Her outward expression was cool, but her heart burned. Her time, indeed, was almost come. This world would be hers, for her appetite knew no bounds.


	4. Chapter 4 Born to Run

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**Chapter 4**

**Born to Run**

Illinois

Grant opened the door to the rural gas station, making the "Help Wanted" sign taped on it waft like a fan. He stepped inside, where the air conditioning and the quiet ping of the bell over the door made a pleasant greeting. Shrugging off his backpack, he rubbed his shoulders where the straps had bitten into then. There was no one behind the counter, but the sound of a television came from the garage. A voice shouted out.

"Be there in a second!"

"No hurry," Grant answered. Through the small grimy window in the door, he saw the figure of a burly man, head buried under the hood of a car, pulling with all his considerable weight on a wrench. Grabbing a soda from the cooler, Grant heard a clatter from the garage, followed by a string of obscenities. A second later, the door pushed open and the man came into the shop, blotting his bloody knuckles with a rag, muttering under his breath.

"Damn kid calls off every other day, leaving me to run everything…" He looked up at Grant. "What can I get you?"

"Um, soda," Grant said, setting the bottle down. The man's irritated scowl deepened. Grant grabbed an energy bar, adding to his purchase. "This, too," he said, setting the bar down by the soda.

"That'll be four twenty."

As Grant reached for his wallet, the door behind him opened, and a young woman poked her head in.

"Excuse me," she said, "but I can't get your pumps to work."

The man behind the counter grumbled. "I'll be back in a second," he said, heading outside.

Grant stood in the empty shop, his eyes going to the phone behind the counter. As with every phone he'd seen this past month, it made him think of his mother. He hadn't spoken to her since the night he left home. Last night at the youth hostel, one of the other boarders offered to let him use his cell phone. He didn't take him up on the offer, partly because he had no privacy to talk, but also because he had no idea what to say to his mom. Sharon would be furious at him for leaving and eaten up with worry. He knew he would have to call her soon, difficult though it would be. His thoughts drifted to Allison, but he didn't let them dwell there. It made the ache of loneliness a little too deep. He'd abandoned her, too, the night he ran away, but unlike with his mother, he hadn't even left Allison a note. How could he possibly explain this to her? He barely understood it himself. All he knew for sure was that by going away, he was keeping them both safe.

There was a stand of maps mounted to the wall. Grant walked over to them, but then stopped. Through the window, he caught sight of the car in the shop. A vintage Mustang, not cherry, a little wear and tear showing, but gleaming black and beautiful, despite it. He pressed his nose against the window, gazing at the beauty. The bell over the door rang, and Grant turned. The shop owner come in, walking behind the register.

"Four twenty for the Coke and the candy bar."

Grant walked over. "That's a beauty you have there," he said, laying the money on the counter. "Boss 309. Is she a 1970?"

The man grunted, pushing Grant's change across the counter. "69. Know your cars, huh?"

Before Grant could answer, another customer walked in. The man rolled his eyes. "Oh, that damned kid is so fired," he muttered, turning his attention to the new customer.

Grant walked over to the maps and picked one up. He was just outside of Sioux City, Illinois. He'd come two thousand miles in the past four weeks; some of it hitching rides, a couple of times hopping trains, the rest of it hoofing. That left another eight hundred miles or so until he reached his destination, and only a hundred and ninety dollars to fall back on. He turned and looked at the door. The customer was just leaving, making the hastily taped "Help Wanted" sign flap in the breeze.

"That'll be five bucks," the owner said, nodding at the map. Grant folded it up and put it back in the stand.

"How about a job, instead?"

"Job? I don't even know you, kid. You even from around here?"

Another car pulled up to the pumps outside. Grant looked at the owner, smiling. "I can start right now."

The man grumbled under his breath as the door opened. He looked at Grant. "Hang on a second, we'll talk."

Grant waited. Two minutes later, the customer left, and the owner waved him over.

"So. A job, huh?"

"I'm a hard worker."

The big man crossed his arms over his chest. "Where you from?"

"Out west. On my way to see…my dad's folks."

"Hmm. How old are you? You look like you should be playing linebacker for the Bears, except for that baby face."

"I'm eighteen," Grant said. A small lie.

"You interested what it pays?"

"I'm sure it's okay. You're a fair man, aren't you?"

"My ex may not think so. Got to see some I.D. if I'm going to put you on the payroll."

Grant stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I was hoping you could pay me in cash. Look, I won't be around long, I won't lie. I hope to be on my way in a few days, maybe a week—but I'll work hard."

"I need someone permanent."

"Okay, if you find someone, I'll understand. Meanwhile, I can help you out."

The man stared, his eyes narrowing in thought. Then he laughed. "Hell, why not? I got a hunch you're honest. I trust my hunches. What's your name, kid?"

"Grant Ri…Rogers."

"RyRogers?"

"No, Rogers. Just Rogers."

"Okay, just Rogers. I'm Kenny. Hey, Kenny Rogers," the man said, laughing. Grant stared, puzzled.

"Who?"

"Forget it, before your time. Jesus, I'm getting old," he muttered under his breath. "Come on, I'll show you the cash register—which I check like a hawk, by the way. It comes up short, I take it out of your ass."

Grant smiled, listening as Kenny gave a crash tutorial on the cash register and the gas pumps. After a few minutes, the man turned to him.

"You got all that?"

"I think so," Grant said.

"Good. I'm off to fight that damned carburetor. We won't get much traffic till later in the afternoon, the after-work crowd." Kenny said, heading to the garage. "Holler if you need anything."

"You need a hand in there? I mean, it's dead out here."

Kenny turned. "You really know anything about cars?"

"A little. I've rebuilt a few engines."

The man grinned. "Follow me."

Grant followed him into the garage, enjoying the familiar smell of grease, motor oil, and gasoline. Kenny stood by the open hood of the Mustang, crooking a finger to beckon him.

"Okay, show me the carburetor, and the intake manifold."

Grant rolled his eyes and pointed them out. "Come on, give me something hard."

"Alright, smart guy…what's the ignition timing for this rig?"

Grant scrunched his eyes, scrutinizing the engine. "Well, it looks mostly stock. I don't know the setting off hand, but I'd guess maybe twelve degrees? Rev the engine, I'll check the damper mark, and—"

Kenny laughed. "Never mind, I'm convinced. Help me find a cheater bar for the wrench, will you? That last bolt is stuck but good."

Grant picked up the wrench. "Let me give it a try."

"I'm telling you, kid, it's—"

Grant put the wrench on the last bolt holding the carburetor and torqued it. The bolt came off with a rusted screech. Kenny stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Maybe you _are _a linebacker with the Bears. You're a strong one, kid."

"Naw, you just loosened it," Grant said, shrugging sheepishly.

Kenny laughed, and for the next forty minutes, the two of them worked on the car, changing out the carburetor, and reconnecting the hoses and lines. After, Grant took a rag and polished the engine block, happy to be doing something he knew. It was the first time in the past few weeks that he felt on solid footing. The television mounted on the far wall was on, the volume low, but Grant hadn't paid it much attention, until a news flash came on. Dropping the rag, he turned to watch.

"…The situation was critical for several minutes, as the super powered criminals known as the Wrecking Crew rampaged through the financial district. Police shut down all traffic coming in and out of Manhattan, until Iron Man arrived on the scene, leading a group of Avengers. The battle ended quickly, with the Avengers taking the criminals into custody, with no civilian casualties. Let's listen as Iron Man addresses the media."

The armored hero stepped up, retracting his helmet, revealing the famous face of Tony Stark, smiling roguishly, his graying hair slicked back.

"Okay, New York, everything's under wraps—we're talking the Wrecking Crew here, not exactly a three-alarm fire. Our kids did well, don't you think?"

The video showed Iron Man sweeping his arm out, motioning to the young members of the Avengers team, smiling in the background. As Grant stared at the screen, Kenny grabbed the remote, turning the volume down.

"Avengers, give me a break—those kids ought to be in diapers! Outside of Iron Man, there isn't a real superhero on the team anymore."  
"I don't know," Grant said. "They seem pretty good to me. I mean, they must be dedicated, to make the Avengers."

Kenny waved his hand, dismissively. "Aw, maybe. All I know is I'd hate to be in a bind and look up to see a bunch of super-babies coming to the rescue. You ask me, the Avengers haven't been for real since Cap died. There was a hero you could depend on. Like a rock, that guy—and a name you could get behind, you know? I mean, what's that big green kid called? Hulkling? Are you freaking kidding me with that name? If some kid with a hammer shows up calling himself Thor-boy, I'm officially done. Captain America and Falcon, that's _my_ idea of superheroes. Don't build 'em like that anymore."

Grant was about to say something when the bell sounded from the shop. He grabbed a rag to wipe his hands, but Kenny spoke out.

"Go ahead and finish up, I'll tend the register. Check the fluids," he said, heading off. Slowly, Grant began working on the car, with one eye watching the television, until the coverage switched from the Avengers to political news. As he closed the Mustang's hood, Kenny's words played in his mind.

_Cap…there was a hero you could depend on. Like a rock, that guy—and a name you could get behind. Captain America and Falcon, that's my idea of superheroes._

Grant looked at his reflection in the windshield, his mind filled with questions. He tried to picture a mask on his face. Kid America? Cap Jr? He tried to picture himself charging down the street, ready to do battle with a super powered villain, but the idea was so ridiculous he almost laughed out loud. He was a farm boy from Oregon. Who ever heard of a superhero from Oregon? Grabbing a broom, Grant began sweeping up the garage. His thoughts drifted to Allison.

* * *

Somewhere off the coast of New York

The Director of SHIELD sat listening to his people over video conference. The head of European Operations was wrapping up her briefing.

"Our teams on the Latverian border are monitoring the situation, but Doom's new holographic cloak is incredibly difficult to detect from the real thing. Frankly, it's impossible to breach. Whatever he's come up with, it makes standard refractor technology look like something from the Stone Age."

"What about our informants in Latverian Intelligence?"

"It's risky contacting them, sir. We've spent ten years embedding them in their posts. Do you want me to send a communiqué?"

The Director sat in thought. "No. Continue with visual observations. Our people are working on a way to beat that tech. We may have no choice but to call on those informants, there's no telling what Doom may be up to behind that cloak. Meanwhile, what's the latest on Hydra?"

"Barely rumors, sir. There's been no significant threat from Hydra since we took out Strucker, eight years ago. He was the last of their real leadership."

"What about the grandson of that Nazi scientist who worked for Red Skull?"

"Helmut Zemo? He's fallen off the grid, I don't see any threat there. Mostly, what's left of Hydra is a loose confederation of malcontents, and racists nuts. Nothing like an organized threat."

"Those stolen Russian energy cannons seem like a threat to me."

"We haven't determined who took them. Russian military is understandably embarrassed, and they're keeping it under wraps. Indicators point to AIM."

"AIM builds their tech, they don't steal it. Besides, military action isn't their M.O. Put more people on Hydra." He noticed the woman's dubious expression, and he frowned at her. "Humor me, Major."

"Yes sir."

The Director turned to the next screen. "Agent Garcia, what's the situation in Genosha?"

"Positive, sir. Magneto is abiding by the recent accords. Our people have just finished their on-site inspections, with assistance from the X-Men. All clear. It seems Magneto just may be serious about keeping the peace."  
"Hmm. Wouldn't that be nice. Schedule me a meeting with Xavier, as soon as he's back in the states. I'd like to hear his impressions."

He turned to the next screen. "What's the situation with that team we've been tracking in Egypt, Agent Crenshaw?"

"I'm afraid we lost them, sir. We're working to pick the trail back up."

"Viper's people?"

"We haven't confirmed that. We still haven't confirmed she's even alive."

"Her organization is alive. Someone's running that crew."

"Yes, but I don't think their capable of a major offensive. This looks like a fishing expedition."

"If it _is _Viper, and if she _is_ fishing, I want to know. Put more people on it."

The woman hesitated. "Sir, between Viper and Hydra…aren't we just expending resources fighting the last war? There are new threats requiring our attention."

The Director narrowed his glance. "I was part of the force that fought that last war, and I remember how damned close they came to winning it all. I'm not saying ignore the new threats. Just keep a sharp eye on Viper."

"We're on it, sir."

The Director nodded. "Thank you, everybody, we'll talk again next week—agent Jackson, stay on the line, please."

The other screens blinked off, save one. The Director turned to that screen, and to his last order of business. "What's the latest on agent Carter?"

"There's nothing new on the attack, sir. The strike team was freelance, trained and outfitted by Taskmasters organization. We believe that they were working for AIM, but that's just an educated guess. The team was in the dark, strictly dead headers."

"Why Carter? Why now?"

"Unknown, sir. I'm still—"

"Unknown isn't good enough. We're four weeks into this, and we don't know anymore about it than we learned that first night. When is Carter coming in for her debriefing?"

Agent Jackson's face flushed slightly. His voice was calm as he spoke. "She's in the wind, sir. We lost contact with her this morning."

The Directors jaw tightened. "Are you telling me we've lost her and her son both?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. I've put two search and rescue teams on the job. We'll find them."

"Have you reached out to Fury?"

Jackson's face flushed again, and this time, his voice betrayed tension. "Sir, we _will_ find Carter and her son, I promise you. We're monitoring Fury's calls."

"Oh, bullshit, Marcus! You think Nick Fury can't avoid a call trace? Look, I know you have issues with him, but—"

"Sir, I don't—"

The Director spoke over his subordinate, his voice calm but loud. "I know you have issues with him. Get over it. This is the job, Lieutenant. If anyone has the inside track on Carter's whereabouts, it's your father. Reach out to the man. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Marcus…I personally recommended you for your promotion. You deserved it, you're the best I've got…but I can't have your personal life interfering with your duty. Talk to your father."

There was a second of silence. "Yes, sir. Tonight."

"Good. Brief me as soon as you do."

With that, Clay Quartermain shut off the connection. He leaned back, rubbing a hand across his stiff neck. When Maria Hill retired, and the Big Chair was finally his, he'd been elated. Running SHIELD was the culmination of years of work. He knew the job would be demanding, but two years into it, he felt like he'd aged a decade. With all the issues pulling him in a dozen directions at once, unending administrative and logistical demands, and savage political warfare in Washington, it was wearing on him. Some days, running this organization was like trying to pull a Buick up a mountainside. And those were the good days. Sighing, Clay sat up strait, rubbing his temples.

"Carter…what the hell is this all about?"

There was no answer coming from the empty room. Maybe Crenshaw was right; maybe he _was_ obsessed with yesterday's battles…but he didn't think so. Clay had always trusted his instincts, and right now his instincts were telling him that Hydra and Viper posed a grave threat. Somehow, Sharon Carter and her son were in the middle of it all. He hit the com-unit on his desk.

"Have my shuttle ready. And issue a division-wide Yellow Alert."

"Aye, sir."

As Quartermain left his office, soft yellow lights engaged overhead, indicating the highest level of readiness, just below armed conflict. SHIELD was now on a war footing.

* * *

Newbury, Oregon

Jim Putnam, of Putnam Hardware, was at the end of a long, uneventful day. He was ready to close his shop, and his mind was already on what he was going to order from the corner diner for his dinner. He was partial to their pot roast sandwich, but he always ordered that, and he was in the mood to try something new and be daring. Corned beef hash maybe. On Rye. Thinking of his delectable dinner, he heard the door open, jarring his attention rudely back to the store. _Damned last-minute customers_, he thought, setting the newspaper down. He looked up, only half focused on the customer standing before him at the counter.

"How can I help…" Jim stopped in midstream, his eyes traveling up the length and width of the man. "Holy mackerel, you're a big one."

"That I am, pops." The enormous man chuckled, a smile spreading over his face. The smile had all the charm and sincerity of a department store mannequin. Something about his skin looked off, to Jim. It reminded him of Harvey Griffin, after he got burned in the fire at the mill. Patched.

"You new in town?" Jim asked, suddenly aware that he was staring. "I know most everybody hereabouts. Don't know you."

"Right again, pops. I'm just traveling through."

"Well, how can I help you?"

"I'm looking for an old friend of mine, lives around here. A gal and her son, last name of Rogers. Would you know where I could find them?"

That smile bothered Jim, and he shifted uncomfortably under its weight. "If she was a friend, shouldn't you know where she lives?"

The smile widened. The man stepped closer, the wood floor planking groaning under his weight.

"You got me there, pops. But see, I misplaced her address. Just a butter fingers, I guess," the man said, laying his massive hand on the counter. That hand would fit clear around a man's head, Jim thought. It was a disquieting thought. The man went on. "She's a real good-looking lady. Her boy would be about eighteen years old now. Any idea where I might find them?"

"Well, I…I don't know as I should give out any information. What's your business with these people, stranger?"

The smile was almost obscene now. The fingers of the massive hand began to rap-tap on the counter, the sound impossibly loud, like heavy slabs of meat falling.

"That's kind of nosy, pops…but hey, I don't mind telling. This gal was married to an old army buddy of mine. Dead now, poor guy. I just want to stop in and pay my respects to his family." The tapping abruptly stopped, and the enormous man leaned in. "Now, where would I find them?"

Suddenly, Jim was afraid. He no longer entertained thoughts of what to eat for dinner. Or if he would ever eat dinner again. He took a deep breath and swallowed.

"I…I don't know anyone name of Rogers around here. Honest."

"Maybe I got the name wrong. Been a while. Pretty woman, and her teenage son," the man said. His long overcoat fell open, and beneath it, he seemed to be wearing some sort of military gear. On his shirt was a design that looked like a pirate flag: a skull and crossbones. The man went on.

"This lady and her son may have had some troubles recently. You know who I'm talking about, don't you?"

Jim summoned his last remaining bits of courage and lied to the man. "I…I don't know. Honest."

The big man's eyes gleamed. "You sure about that, pops?"

At that moment, when Jim Putnam felt certain the man would reach out with his enormous hands and crush the life from him, the door to his hardware shop opened. He looked up, relieved to see a familiar face. The girl walked into the store, carrying a stack of flyers. Jim craned his neck, looking around the big man standing in front of him, and he greeted the girl, his words tumbling out in a rush.

"Hello there, Allison. What can I do for you?"

The girl looked at him, her brown eyes pretty, despite the veil of sadness that had draped over them these past four weeks.

"I can wait until you're done with this man, Mister Putnam. I just want to put some flyers up. We still haven't heard from Mrs. Riley…or Grant. Can I put these in your window?"

Jim's mouth went dry. He tried and failed to speak. The big man turned around.

"Hi, sweetheart. Can I see one of those?"

As the man extended a massive hand to the pretty brunet, Jim Putnam felt his heart race in his chest. He wanted to shout out to Allison, tell her to run, but fear held him in place. Lost in her concern, the girl had not noticed anything wrong. She handed the man a flyer. On it, were two mimeographed photos, a woman and her son, Sharon, and Grant Riley. The man folded the flyer, putting it in his pocket.

"They're real good people," Allison said, staring at the floor. "We're awfully worried about them. If you see them, or know anything at all, please call the police."

"Oh, I can do better than that, darling. I think I can find these people. And you know what? I think maybe you could help me," he said, patting her shoulder. Her eyes suddenly registered fear. The man's hand clamped around her shoulder, pinching her neck. She screamed, struggled, pounded her fists against his enormous hands. The man chuckled, and the girl went limp, falling to the floor. The man turned, beaming a smile that could freeze water on a hot day. And in that instant, Jim knew.

"Well, I'm not going to lie to you, pops," the big man said, genially. "I'm afraid you're closing up shop tonight. Permanently."

The last thing that Jim Putnam saw in this world was that enormous hand, reaching for him.


	5. Chapter 5 Night Moves

.

**Chapter 5**

**Night Moves**

Illinois

The day passed quickly for Grant. After helping Kenny change out the carburetor on the Mustang, two more cars came into the garage for oil changes. Grant discovered one of the vehicles was misfiring and needed a tune-up. Kenny chose to watch the shop, leaving Grant to work on the cars. While Grant enjoyed the man's company, he was pleased to have time alone. Working on cars was like therapy, allowing him to Zen out. The loneliness of being on the road these past few weeks, and the stress of constantly worrying about his mom seemed to melt away as he worked on the little Honda Civic. After replacing the bad spark plugs and installing a new air filter, the car ran well, but he continued to tinker, checking the belts, and topping off the fluids. Therapy.

Closing the hood, Grant found that he had arrived at a decision that was long in coming: he would call his mom tonight. Sharon needed to know he was okay. He needed to know she was all right, as well. And maybe he could get word on Allison. His mother hadn't been thrilled at how close he and Allison had grown over the past year. He could picture her eyes rolling at hearing him say this, but he loved Allison, and she loved him…at least, she _did_ love him, before he ran off without leaving so much as a word. With the worry and guilt settling on his shoulders once again, Grant wiped his hands on a rag, and headed out of the garage. As he did, he glanced behind him, at the small couch set against the rear wall. The table sitting beside it, with its small reading lamp, told him that Kenny sometimes crashed here.

As Grant stepped into the store, Kenny looked up from his perch behind the register, flashing a broad grin.

"You finished in there?"

"Yeah, they're all good to go," Grant said. "The Honda just needed plugs."

"Alright, that's what I like to hear. Got some coffee if you drink it."

Grant walked behind the counter, where a pot of coffee was on a low boil. He poured himself a cup and drank. Strong enough to mortar bricks, but hot, and good. As Kenny fixed himself a cup, the door opened and a young guy came in, wearing a knit hat with a peace sign, and a tee shirt emblazoned with the image of a bloody video game character holding a severed head. Shuffling up to the counter, the guy looked sheepishly at Kenny.

"Sorry I'm late."

Kenny raised an eyebrow and glanced at his watch. "Fifteen minutes is late. Your shift started six hours ago, Devin."

"I overslept. I was in that Halo tourney last night, Uncle Kenny, I told you about that."

"I'm sure this will come as a shock," Kenny said, sipping his coffee, "but I don't actually pay attention when you go on about your video game bullshit."

"It's not bullshit. I'll be rolling in it once I go pro. I've got mad skills," the guy said, making a hip-hop move designed to impress. Kenny wasn't.

"Good luck on your new career, but I gotta let you go."

"Dude, that's harsh. Mom's gonna kill me."

"Yeah, that's my sister alright, she'll give me hell, too. Sorry kid, but I need someone I can rely on."

"This guy?" Devin said, casting a surly look at Grant. "What's he got that I don't have?"

"Brains, brawn, work ethic, a good attitude…you want me to go on?"

"What is he, a monk?"

Kenny laughed, and opened the register, taking out an envelope. He grabbed a couple of twenties from the till, and put them with the envelope, handing them to the kid. "Here's your last paycheck, and a little severance to boot. Try not to blow it all on weed."

Devin stuffed the booty into his pocket. "This will barely cover my rent. What am I going to do for money?"

"Giving up on your video game career already?" Kenny said, wryly. "Look, Grant will be moving on soon, and I'll need someone again. If you're serious about working for a change, come see me. But only if your serious."

With a last glum look, Devin shuffled out of the store.

"That was awkward," Grant said. "I didn't mean to cut your nephew out of a job."

"Aw, don't worry about it. His mom manages the grocery, he can always get on there, after she roasts him alive." Kenny looked at him. "You know, it wouldn't bother me if you changed your mind about moving on. You're a good worker, kid. Job's yours if you decide to stick around."

"Thanks," Grant said, feeling a little embarrassed, and proud. "But I really do have to go soon."

"Your dad's people?" Kenny asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Um...yeah."

Kenny nodded. "Well, the offer stands. Things are pretty quiet, why don't you knock off for the day. Come in at noon tomorrow, and I'll show you how to close. Where are you staying, anyway?"

"Um...the motel."

"What, in town? Geez, that's six miles. A long way to hoof it."

"It's not so much," Grant said, scooping up his backpack. "Hey...I think I left my phone in the garage. I better go get it. I'll head out through the side door."

"Sure, kid. See you tomorrow."

Customers entered the store, taking Kenny's attention. Grant slipped into the garage, pulling the door closed behind him, and hurried to the window next to the couch. He raised the blinds, finding a small lock on the window frame. Putting his thumb to the metal latch, he pressed on it, until it broke with a small snapping sound. Slipping the broken piece in his pocket, Grant pulled the blinds back in place, and headed out through the side door.

**. . .**

Three hours later, the setting sun had washed the dusky purple sky with flames of orange, making the lonely little gas station look like a painting. The store lights flicked off, followed by the big sign outside. A minute later, Kenny stepped out onto the parking lot, locking the door behind him. Stuffing his burly frame into the cab of his pickup, he motored off. Seconds passed. Grant stood and walked out of the tall weeds across from the station. Seeing there was no traffic coming, he dashed across the road, and made his way around to the back of the station. Opening the window, he quietly slipped inside. As he went to pull the blinds closed, he caught his reflection in the window.

"What are you looking at?" he muttered.

It was no use feeling guilty; the deed was done. He would fix the window before he left, there was no real harm. He'd checked the internet the day before, finding no hostel nearby, no state park he could camp in. He'd told Kenny he was staying in a motel, a white lie. Even a night's stay would eat into his precariously depleted budget. If he'd asked him, Kenny would probably have let him stay. Probably. When a guy is on the run from assassins, sometimes he has to do things he's not proud of. Moral relativism, he thought, shaking his head. Pulling the blinds down, he flopped onto the couch.

Grant turned the table lamp on, finding the glow of the sixty-watt bulb a fitting match for his lonely mood, and then fished the cell phone from his pocket. He had ditched his old cell the night he ran away; his mother would be able to track him the second he used it, so the first chance he got, he picked up a new phone. A cheapie track phone, the only thing he could afford. He stared at the phone in the gloom, as the seconds passed into minutes. Taking a deep breath, he punched in his mother's number, and waited.

A second passed, and then a voice answered, edged with suspicion.

"Hello?"

Grant paused, and almost hung up. Gripping the phone tight, he spoke. "Mom. It's me."

"Grant. Where are you? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Are you okay? I mean, I figured leaving you with all those SHIELD agents you would be, but—"

"Never mind me," Sharon interrupted, her voice cool and clipped with anger. "Tell me where you are."

"I'm safe, mom."

"Don't tell me you're safe! You have no idea what kind of people are looking for you, what they'll do if they catch you."

"That's why I left. I couldn't let you get hurt because of me. I tried to explain that in my note."

He heard his mother take a deep breath. "I know you're worried, but I can take care of myself, Grant. You're the one in danger. Please, sweetheart…tell me where you are."

Grant felt his heart break at the pain in his mother's voice. He changed the subject. "How is Allison?"

"She's worried about you. Everyone is. SHIELD passed it off as a gas leak. People are assuming you ran off because you felt responsible. Allison is worried."

"Can you tell her I'm alright? I'll call her as soon as I can, and try to explain it."

"Come home, tell her yourself. We can do it together."

"I have to go mom. I know you're trying to trace the call. I checked the internet, I know how long it takes. I...I love you."

"Grant, don't hang up. Please, tell me where—"

Grant stabbed the off button, and the phone went dead. He sat, staring into the darkness, his mother's words echoing in his thoughts. There were tears in her voice, something he'd rarely heard before. His own eyes grew misty. He thought of his home, destroyed. He thought of Allison, heartbroken and worried. And he thought of the life he'd left behind and could never go back to. Grant Riley was a fiction. He was Grant Rogers...and his father was Captain America. Grant looked at his hands, feeling the power that surged through them, filling his body with strength that he was still getting used to. This strength came from his father, a gift from a man he never knew. Because of that gift, people were hunting him. That's why he couldn't afford to stay here for long. He had to make his destination and find help.

Grant sniffed, wiping his dewy eyes. He had to put this emotion behind him; he couldn't afford it any longer. A few weeks ago, he'd still been a boy, another thing could no longer afford. Although he wouldn't turn eighteen for another few weeks, he was a man now, because he _had _to be one. If he were going to survive, he had to put boyhood behind him.

Taking the charger from his backpack, Grant plugged his phone in. He set the alarm early, and then stretched out on the couch. He was asleep seconds later, and soon, was dreaming. In his dreams, he found himself on a battlefield, with bullets riddling the misty ground around him, and explosions ripping the air. Ahead of him, barely visible, a tall man charged forward, holding out a gleaming shield as he pursued enemies hidden in the shadows. He turned as he ran, looking back at Grant, urging him on. Grant called out to the man, but he raced forward, disappearing in the mist, leaving him alone. When Grant awoke later in the morning, he did not remember the dream...he was only aware of a deep ache in his heart.

* * *

New York City

Sharon stood in the darkness as the line went dead. Grant, true to his plan, had hung up before she could trace his call. She was immensely relieved at hearing his voice and learning he was safe, but her relief was tempered by the knowledge of the danger he still faced. As long as he was alone, without cover, his life was in danger. She had to find him. Wiping the trace of tears from her eyes, she slipped the phone back into her pocket, and drew her gun, waiting in the darkness.

As she waited, she set about clearing her thoughts. Her mind, burdened with stress and worry, did not cooperate at first, but bit by bit, her old skills asserted themselves. Soon, she was in the pocket. After so many years away from the job, she feared she had lost the ability to enter this space, but it came to her, the way music comes to a player long separated from their instrument, the notes and melodies rising from deeply ingrained muscle memory. Once in the pocket, her mind would not anticipate, nor worry, nor focus on any one thing, but on _everything_. It allowed her to operate at peak efficiency, tapping into all her mental and physical skills without stress, or distraction. In the world of espionage, where life or death can hinge on an instant decision, and success and failure balances on a razor's edge, the pocket was her secret weapon. It was what had elevated her from the ranks of the talented operatives, into one of the world's elite agents; a master spy, and feared assassin.

As her heart rate slowed, lowering her breathing to the point of near total silence, her thoughts became as clear and sharp as polished crystal. Deep in the pocket now, Sharon Carter waited in the darkness, her gun held loosely, letting the minutes tick on without worry or thought, until the door opened, and her target came inside. She listened to him speak, trying to activate his apartment's computer system.

"Lights."

The darkness remained. He shifted, looking about, a useless gesture given the dark. "Lights," he repeated. Nothing happened. As he took his phone from his pocket, Sharon stepped from the shadows, and put her gun to the back of his head.

"Don't move."

The man held. "My security detail is downstairs," he said, calmly and quietly. "They'll be here any second."

"No, Director, they won't. I'm jamming the signal, they aren't listening. We'll have plenty of privacy to talk. Hand me the phone, slowly."

Clay Quartermain stiffened, and then passed his phone over his shoulder. "You know, 13, you could have just come to the office. You're always welcome in the Division." He started to turn. Sharon pressed the gun tighter to his head.

"I don't trust your office. For that matter, I don't trust the Division. I'm trying to decide if I can trust you. Until I make up my mind, don't move. And don't call me 13."

"Okay, Sharon, let's talk. But I'm not going to do it with a gun at my head. It's been a long day. I'm heading to my living room to sit down. Join me if you'd like...or murder me if that's really what you came here to do."

Clay started to walk away. Sharon pulled the trigger, firing into his back.

**. . .**

Quartermain's eyes fluttered open, slowly. The room was dark, the only light coming from a small portable lantern set on the coffee table. He wiped the drool from his mouth, issuing a small groan of pain as he tried to rise.

"Sonofagoddammn…"

"Keep your seat," Sharon said, standing before him, gun in hand. "I found your field dampener. Very clever, disguising it as a smoke alarm. It's floating in your toilet now. If I'm forced to shoot you again, it's going to hurt."

Clay watched her dial up the setting on her energy pistol. He smiled at her, and slowly sat up on his couch. "You seem to be intent on ending up in custody, Sharon."

"I don't care about that. I have one concern. My son. How long has the Division known about him?"

"Grant? First I heard about him was after the attack on your place."

"That's not what I asked. How long has the _Division_ known about him?"

Clay sighed. "The initial report was filed about a year and a half ago. It turned up in a routine investigation. Just information for the files."

Sharon lifted the gun slightly, pointing it with casual deliberateness. "So, you weren't running an Op on me?"

"An Op? Maybe you've been away from the game too long to remember how it works, but SHEILD has real problems to monitor. I could care less about any former agent's procreation activities."

"Someone cared enough to send a strike team to my house."

"That's right. Why the hell did they do that, Carter?"

"You tell me. That report you mentioned, what did it say about my son?"

"Nothing specific, just that you had a boy, the father some local. I told you, it was routine. You're losing it, 13."

"You haven't seen me lose it, Clay, but keep stringing me along, and you will. I want to hear everything SHIELD knows about my son," Sharon said, leveling her gun at him.

"Goddammit, Sharon, I'm being straight with you! I don't know anything! I want to help you find him, but you have to tell me what's going on. What did that strike team want with you?"

For several long seconds, Sharon stood, her weapon trained on Quartermain, her eyes locked on his, scrutinizing his expression. As the seconds piled up to a minute, she lowered the gun to her side.

"Dig into that report, Clay, find out who filed it, and who's accessed it recently."

"That could be hundreds of agents. It wasn't highly classified. Why would someone go to so much trouble? Don't take this wrong, Carter, but you just aren't that important."

"No, I'm not, but his father was. Steve Rogers."

Clay's eyes went wide. "That would do it," he said, softly. "Grant, does he...is he like his father?"

"It only happened recently. Until a few weeks ago, he was just a normal boy. For seventeen and a half years, we lived in peace. Then he gains his father's power, and someone tries to kidnap him. That's not a coincidence."

"No. It sure as hell isn't."

"I'm trusting you, Clay. Don't let me down. Find the leak in your organization."

"Top priority."

Sharon nodded. "What do you know about agent Jackson?"

Clay stood up on legs still wobbly from the energy shock. "Marcus? You like Nick Fury's son for this?" He shook his head. "No way. He's one of my best."

"Nick was the only person I even confided in about Grant. Between his father, and his own position at SHIELD, Marcus's may have learned the truth."

"And that makes him a traitor?"

"Someone is. Look, I don't care about stepping on toes. All I care about is my son."

For the first time, something like emotion passed over Sharon's eyes, and her words faltered. Only for a moment. She pulled herself in again, her expression icy as she continued.

"Grant is out there, alone. You know the kind of people who are pursuing him. They'll stop at nothing to get their hands on him...and I'll stop at nothing to protect him."

Clay met her steely gaze. "You saved my life twenty years ago, Carter, I owe you. And Steve, hell, he saved the whole damned world. I'll personally spearhead this investigation. Whoever's behind the attack on your son...I'll burn them to the ground."

The two old colleagues stood in the room, staring at each other through the darkness. Years of history passed between them, saying more than words could ever convey. Sharon took a small device from her pocket and clicked it.

"Your power will come back on in ten minutes, along with your com-system. Sorry about zapping you," she said, heading to the door.

"Yeah," Clay said, rubbing his legs. "I could have done without that. How do I reach you, Carter?"

"You don't. I'll contact you."

Sharon Carter slipped out of the apartment, making no more noise than a shadow.

Quartermain collapsed on his couch, letting out a breath of air. _Captain America's son, _he thought, rubbing the pins and needles still shooting through his legs. The stakes of the game had just risen exponentially_._


	6. Chapter 6 Bad Moon Rising

.

**Chapter 6**

**Bad Moon Rising**

Seattle

Fury eased into the plush leather recliner, grateful to get off his feet. His sixty-fifth birthday was a month away, and though he maintained an exercise regimen that would shame men half his age, he was beginning to feel the years. He rubbed his tired eyes. Five years after receiving the bionic implant, he still expected to feel an eye patch covering an empty socket. The artificial eye functioned perfectly, and he knew he'd sound crazy if he ever said it aloud, but sometimes he missed the eye patch. Setting his glass of wine on the side table, he spoke to his computer.

"Dim the lights, fifty-percent. And give me some jazz, please."

"_Would you like a specific artist or recording?_"

Fury settled back, closing his eyes as the lights dimmed. "Miles Davis. Anything with Coltrane."

The opening bars of _So What_ drifted languidly from the speakers, piano and bass laying down modal tones, soft yet angular. Davis's trumpet came in, brittle and dark, taking the music somewhere new, his tone aloof, yet hauntingly beautiful. The mood shifted again as Trane took over, the notes cascading from his horn like water gushing from a deep spring. The music penetrated the knots of tension in Fury, loosening his tight muscles. He took a sip of wine, allowing himself the luxury of ten minutes relaxation.

Since getting Sharon's call two and a half weeks ago, he'd been on the go nonstop, chasing leads, and reaching out to old contacts, some he hadn't spoken with in more than a decade. It hadn't borne fruit. After spending every waking moment working on the problem, he was no closer to finding Grant than he was the night the boy ran off. He'd assumed tracking a seventeen-year-old with little money in his pocket and no head start, would be a simple matter, but he forgot to factor in who the boy's parents were. Grant had his mother's instincts for secrecy, and his father's superhuman speed and endurance. The kid could be halfway across the country by now, and probably was. His destination was a mystery.

As the music played, Fury's phone began to vibrate. He took it from his pocket, reading the screen. Quartermain. He'd been expecting this call for days, but of course it had to come now. So much for ten minutes of relaxation.

"Pause the music," Fury said. With a small sigh, he thumbed the line open and put the phone to his ear.

"Clay. It's been awhile."

"Hello, Colonel. Do you have a moment to talk?"

"I'll make time."

"I appreciate it," Quartermain replied. "I've read the reports on the incident in Oregon, but I'd like to hear it from you directly. Given your close involvement."

"I don't know how close my involvement was. Sharon called needing help, and I came. I only wish I'd gotten there sooner. Any word on the boy?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"I wouldn't sit on news like that, Clay."

"Okay. Did you know that Sharon has also dropped off the grid?"

That information surprised Fury. He didn't bother to hide it from Quartermain. "No. I spoke with her last night. I didn't get a sense anything like that about to happen. She's very upset about her son. I'm not sure what she's up to, but she won't stay in the shadows long."

"She didn't. She was here in my apartment, not one hour ago. Let's just say she's a woman on a mission."

The line grew quiet. Fury waited. After a moment, Clay continued.

"I'm not stupid enough to think I can work you, Nick, or get something out of you that you don't want gotten, so I'll cut to the chase. Sharon told me the truth about her son. She also told me you were the only other person she'd ever confided in. I've scoured the SHIELD database. There was no record of this information."

"Because I never filed it."

"Yet someone knew. Any thoughts how that might be?"

"A few. You say SHIELD has nothing on the boy. That may be true, it may not. I used to give people that line when I was running the show. I'd stand before Senate oversight committees and testify we weren't conducting operations that we were up to our necks in. Being two years into the job, I'm sure you've done the same. So, it might be that somewhere along the line, some enterprising agent learned the truth about Grant. That information could be very valuable to the right people. Wouldn't be the first rotten apple the Division's had. Leaks are always a problem."

"That's one possibility," Clay said. "Another is that the leak originated with you."

"You think I'm dirty?"

"Not a chance. I'd bet my life on it. But leaks happen. You know, I was surprised that Marcus was with the response team that arrived that night. Given his recent promotion, it really isn't protocol for him to work an active field operation."

Fury's blood went cold. His voice was even as he spoke. "He happened to be in Seattle when the call came in, meeting with his west coast people. Look, there's no regulation against a Division Chief doing field work."

"No. It's just unusual."

"Clay...if you have an accusation to make, make it."

"No accusations, Colonel. Just thinking out loud."

"A little too loud. I'm going to say this once, and then this conversation is over. My son isn't a traitor."

"I'm not saying he is. Maybe it's someone on his team, or someone who's gained proximity to him. But this information leaked somehow. Like you said, the Division's had bad apples before. If that's what we're dealing with, I'm going to root it out. I'm not accusing Marcus...but I'm going to follow the evidence. Wherever it leads."

Again, the line went silent. Fury sat in the darkness, a thousand angry rebuttal's wanting to leap from his mouth. He said nothing. Eventually, Quartermain spoke.

"It's late, and I don't want to keep you. I'll notify you with any news we get concerning the boy. I'd appreciate you keeping me posted on anything you might learn. Goodnight, Colonel."

The line went dead. Fury set the phone on the table, noticing his hand shaking. He took a deep breath. The shaking stopped, but his mind still raced. He tried to think; had he ever mentioned, however obliquely, anything concerning Sharon Carter and her son to Marcus? Or to anyone? He was almost certain he hadn't...but a seed of doubt existed.

He thought of Marcus, and the distance that stood between them. It was a distance Fury had earned. He had been a piss-poor husband, and an absentee father. SHIELD didn't lend itself to harmonious family life. He'd hardly known Marcus by the time he joined the Army at eighteen. He'd been proud of the sterling record he'd achieved, and even prouder when he transferred to SHIELD. Fury hoped it would provide a chance for them to reconnect. It didn't happen. Was it possible Marcus's childhood resentments ran deeper than he realized, metastasizing into something malignant? He didn't want to believe it, but he was forced to ask himself; how well did he really known his son?

His thoughts turned to Clay next, a man he'd known for thirty years. He'd watched Clay rise through the ranks, from a wet-nosed cadet, to one of his most trusted operatives. He supported his bid for the Directorship, knowing he was the right person for the job, and he empathized with him, knowing full well the burden he was under. Fury had always liked Clay...and if he were standing here right now, he'd shoot the son of bitch.

Fury walked to the kitchen, emptying his glass into the sink; the wine had lost its flavor. As he rinsed the glass, his doorbell rang. Stepping into the hallway, he activated the small monitor mounted in the wall, and checked the security camera. His eyes widened at the figure standing at his front door. Taking a breath, he paused a moment, smoothing the lines of tension in his face. He walked over and opened the door, nodding at the man standing before him, his handsome face familiar, yet somehow unknown.

"Hello, Marcus."

"Colonel. I know I'm dropping in unannounced, but I was hoping you'd have a moment to talk."

Fury smiled. "I'll make time."

He stepped aside, letting his son into the apartment. As he closed the door, it occurred to Fury that his ten minutes of relaxation were on hold indefinitely.

* * *

Kansas

Allison sat in the passenger seat of the Cadillac Escalade SUV, making herself as still and silent as the empty cup resting in the cup holder beside her, and the empty food wrappers at her feet. If she became still enough, silent enough, maybe she would disappear from this nightmare. She knew she wouldn't, she'd been a prisoner too many days to cling to such a childish hope, but she stayed silent anyway, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead as the car raced down the misty morning stretch of highway.

It wasn't hard to be silent; not with the radio blaring, and the man in the driver's seat singing at the top of his enormous voice. Everything about him was enormous. He was bigger than her burly farmer father, bigger even than coach Stratton, who had played college football and who had the respect of even the rowdiest boys at the high school. The man next to her made coach Stratton look petite. He stood six foot eight, maybe taller, and had to weigh at least four-hundred pounds. His arms were like tree trunks, with hands the size of catchers' mitts. Those hands might have looked comical, wrapped around the steering wheel like it was a toy, but there was nothing comical about him. The day after her abduction, Allison had worked up the courage to ask him his name. He smiled at her and answered "What's in a name, darling? Call me Bones." Benes's smile had the warmth of a rattlesnake. He was smiling as he sang, rapping the steering wheel in time to the music.

"_I'm going to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come...They've got a crazy way of loving there, and I'm gonna get me one…"_

He turned to her. "You're not singing. What's wrong, sweetheart, don't know this one?"

She answered without turning, her eyes lowered, her voice a whisper. "No. It sounds old."

He laughed. "Not old, darling, classic. Like me."

He went back to singing, his voice low and gravely, but in tune. Actually, his singing was good. She hated herself for thinking that. The song finished, and another oldie came on, but apparently he didn't like that one, because he turned the radio down. Allison said a silent prayer of thanks. He spoke, ending the brief reprieve.

"We're not actually going to Kansas City, 'least I don't think we are. Maybe your boyfriend will throw me a curve and double back on us. Those boys back at the youth hostel couldn't shine any light on where he was heading, and I doubt they weren't holding out on me," he said, chuckling cruelly. "My instinct says Grant is heading east, but just where to, I don't know. Now, you wouldn't happen to know something about that, would you, darling?"

She shuddered and kept her eyes straight ahead. "I told you, I don't know where he's going. Or why."

"Okay. But at some point, I may have to ask a bit more forcefully. Let's not talk about unpleasant things on such a fine morning." He read the passing highway sign. "We're coming up on Leavenworth. I did a little stretch there, once upon a time."

"Isn't that a military prison?"

"Bright girl. I was a Ranger. Friggin Army, they trained me to kill, and then they put me away for doing my job too well. There's gratitude for you. Your boyfriend's papa, he was a dogface soldier, too."

"I didn't know that. Grant never knew his father, he died before he was born."

"I know. I was there when he died."

That news chilled her heart. "Did you...I mean, you didn't..?"

"Kill him? Naw. Tried to, more than once." His smile dimmed, and his expression grew thoughtful, his voice quiet. "He was the toughest S.O.B. I ever went up against. I always thought I'd get him, but he cashed in his chips fighting my old boss. Missed my chance."

She looked at him, making her voice as pitiful as she could. "Grant isn't his father—he hasn't done anything to you. Please, just let him go, let _me_ go."

Bone's voice was almost pensive now. "Sorry, darling, it's nothing personal."

"You'll never find him. It was a miracle you tracked him to that hostel. He could be anywhere now."

Bones smiled, holding up his cell. "But he's not anywhere...he's _somewhere_, and I'm gonna find him. I'm connected to a whole network of people who watch the shadows, sniff around where most folks are afraid to go. I'llfind him, alright, and he'll come nice and quiet once he sees I have you."

Allison gathered her courage and took the little girl pity from her voice. "You act like this big tough killer, but you need help capturing a boy? What are you afraid of?"

He looked at her, his eyes smoldering. "Sweetie, there ain't a man on this earth I'm afraid of. Thing is, your little boyfriend's got something special in him, so I need to take precautions. But I don't think I need to tell you. You know he's special, don't you?"

His eyes pierced her, searching. Despite the fear gripping her heart, making her body shake, she managed to hold his gaze as she answered him.

"I don't know what you're talking about. He's just a boy. And he's good, and honest, and he's never hurt anyone. Please, just leave us alone."

He turned back to the road. "He's not just a boy, any more than his papa was just a man. Grant's got something special in his blood, and my friends want it. That's just the way it is. Now I'm done talking about it. You be good, and don't give me any trouble, and I'll let you go once I have him."

He was lying. She hadn't seen him do it, but she knew he had killed Mr. Putnam back in Oregon, a sweet old man who never bothered anyone, just as she knew he'd killed those boys at the youth hostel. He wouldn't hesitate to kill her, once her usefulness was at an end. But she didn't think he would kill Grant. It made her blood turn cold wondering what Bones and his friends were planning.

She had lied; she _did_ know that Grant was special. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but it was only last month when he shared his secret. Somehow, he had gained incredible strength. She thought it was some silly joke...until he showed her. He started by stripping his shirt off. While he'd always been muscular, he looked like one of those wrestlers on television, his body incredibly lean and rippling. Her heart raced at seeing him this way. They had grown close this past year, spending more and more time together. They were in love, and even though they weren't ready to take things all the way, she found herself thinking about it as she looked at him that night. And then Grant picked up a big axel that was leaning against the pole barn, where they had walked to for some privacy. As she stared, dumbfounded, he bent the big metal bar like it was made of wax. She was electrified, but Grant was moody. He put his shirt back on, saying he didn't know what to do about it. She held him, they kissed...and if he had tried, she knew she would have let him. But grant said, "No, I don't want our first time to be in some dusty barn." They held each other in the moonlight, until the time came for him to take her home. And now, she feared she might die, and never get to be with the boy she loved.

She felt tears coming. She bit her lip, summoning pain to drive them back. She had cried around Bones too many times as it was, and she wouldn't do it again. Weakness only made him crueler. Swallowing hard, she cleared the bitterness from her thoughts, and the pain from her heart. She didn't allow herself to think about Grant, or her parents, at home, worried sick. Instead, she put all her concentration into gazing out at the road ahead, memorizing every road sign and every landmark that passed by. She wouldn't give up hope. Maybe she would live through this nightmare, and see Grant again. She said a quiet prayer, as the monster next to her began to sing again.

"_I see, a bad moon a-rising...I see, trouble on the way...I see, earthquakes and lightnin...I see, bad times today…don't come out tonight, it's bound to take your life...there's a bad moon on the rise._"

As Allison sat, as still and silent as the dust on the dashboard, the SUV continued down the highway, racing to its deadly rendezvous.

* * *

Illinois

The last few days had been good ones for Grant. The work at Kenny's gas station was simple, but it took his mind off his worries. Kenny was a great guy to work for, and Grant got to meet his other two employees, Sarah, and Jessie. Sarah was a good-natured senior, working part-time to keep busy as much as anything, and Jessie was also part-time, working his way through college. That bit of information was a little jarring to Grant. He'd always assumed he would go to college. Even with her overprotective streak, his mother agreed, and they had even started sending out applications, but that seemed like a million years ago. Maybe he would never go, who knew what the future held now?

That was a momentary blip of disappointment in an otherwise good stretch of days. He had continued to crash on the couch at night, saving money on a motel room. On his off time, he walked into town, where he'd spend hours at the Springfield library. It would have been nice if he'd had more time to explore the hometown of Abraham Lincoln, but he had other historical research to do.

Using the library computers, he looked up everything he could find on Captain America. There were reams of articles, and hundreds of videos on YouTube. He started with the black and white newsreels from World War II, which were amazing, and then he moved on to the newer stuff. One video was almost impossible to believe—news footage of Cap, in Philadelphia, battling a super powered monster called the Rhino. His costume was a little goofy, but this Rhino guy was no joke; tossing cars around like they were cardboard, his punches shattering concrete and smashing steel like Papier Mache. Against him stood one man, Captain America...his father. With speed, skill, and nerve, Cap fought the behemoth, wearing him down until he finally floored him with his shield. His father had more than power; he had nearly superhuman fighting skills. Grant thought he could study a hundred years and not approach his father's abilities.

He also watched a news conference that Cap had given on the grounds of Avengers Mansion, after contracting a mysterious disease. His speech was incredible, holding hundreds of reporters, and thousands of spectators, spellbound. His last words burned themselves into Grant's memory:

_It's been the honor of my life to serve you as Captain America. I intend to go on serving you. To the people I fought last night, to all those who seek to do evil and enforce their will on others, I say this. My fight goes on. I will oppose you with my dying breath. When I fall, others will take my place._

It could be argued that no one had ever truly taken his place, but otherwise, his words had been prophetic. Captain America had indeed fought to the end, giving his life to save the world. That led Grant to look up one last thing, something not at all inspiring, but rather, something terrifying...

The Red Skull.

His mother hadn't exaggerated when she called him a monster. He wasn't a guy in a costume, like Rhino, powerful though he was. The Skull was inhuman, a living skeleton. Just looking at pictures of him was unnerving, but seeing a piece of rare video of him, moving and talking, was disorienting. It was like watching rain fall backwards, or watching the moon turn red, and the sea to dust. It was hard to imagine what it would have been like to face him in person. His father had not only faced him, he had _defeated _him, saving the world from a nightmare future under the rule of that dead thing, clothed in bones as red as blood. That image stayed with Grant well after he clicked off the internet. It took him a long time to fall asleep that night.

Those were his off hours. His time spent working at the gas station passed quickly. The boring part was when he was stuck behind the register, selling snacks and gasoline, but a lot of the time he was in the garage, happily buried under the hood of a car, nursing a sick engine back to health. Even the tire changes were fun. There was a steady stream of cars coming into the garage, and Kenny had asked him again if he would consider staying on. With more sadness than he would have believed, he told him 'no'. And here he was, working his last night. In the morning, he would be pushing off. As he closed the hood of the Ford F200 (fuel pump), he wiped his hands. He looked over to the couch that had been his bed for the past week and said a fond farewell. He had fixed the window earlier, his last loose end wrapped up. Tonight, with a week's pay in his pocket, he would stay in a motel, and get an early start. All that was left was saying goodbye to Kenny, who was working the register. Crossing the floor, he pushed open the door to the store area of the gas station...and then he froze.

There were two guys standing at the register, one of them with a gun pointed at Kenny. He wheeled the gun around, pointing it at him now.

"Don't fucking move!"

"I'm not," Grant said. He slowly raised his hands.

"Get over here," the guy said, his pale skin slick with sweat, and black circles surrounding his dilated eyes. Grant hadn't seen many drug addicts living in rural Oregon, but he was certain this guy was a tweaker, like his partner. Grant walked over, stopping a few feet from Kenny, the gun trailing him all the way. The gunman pointed to the counter with his free hand.

"Your wallet. Give it."

Grant glared at him, thinking of his hard-earned pay. If not for the risk to Kenny, he'd go after these guys; he had faced twenty trained assassins, he was certain he could take these losers. Grudgingly, he pulled the wad of cash from his pocket, and laid it on the counter.

"That's it," he said. "I don't have a wallet."

The other guy grabbed the cash, scooping it into his grubby pockets. He looked to his partner, his eyes constantly darting behind him.

"Come on, man, let's book."

"In a second," the gunman said, staring at Kenny. "The keys to that pickup outside, hand 'em over."

Kenny glared back at him. "That truck was my father's. I'm not giving it to a piece of crap like you. Take the money and get the hell out of here."

The tweaker's pasty face flushed with rage. As he whipped the gun up to Kenny's face, Grant launched himself, grabbing his gun hand and pushing it up and away from Kenny. The tweaker got off a shot, the sound enormous in the small room. The bullet struck the ceiling, shattering a fluorescent light. Grant squeezed, shattering the guys hand, making him scream. As the gun fell to the counter, Grant felt a sudden burning pain run down the side of his face and his shoulder. He dropped the gunman, and turned. The second holdup man stood before him gripping a knife in his hand, the blade dripping blood.

"Stay back, man," the crook said, his movements jittery, his eyes glassy and wide. "I'll freaking gut you!"

With the blade still in his left hand, he reached for the gun. Grant snatched it up, moving in a blur of speed. He held the gun before the would-be killer, trembling now himself as anger flared in his system. "You want this, tough guy?" he asked, staring at the greasy-haired thief, who couldn't have been much older than he was. Grant squeezed, crumpling the gun. The crook looked on in disbelief, as Grant dropped the ruined lump of metal to the floor.

"Jesus...you ain't human," the guy said, grabbing his partner, who was still moaning in pain. The two of them backed out of the store, then turned and ran out into the night. Grant started after them, but Kenny grabbed his arm, stopping him.

"Grant...let them go. It ain't worth it. Come here, let me see your face."

Grant turned to him, seeing Kenny's eyes grow wide. "What? Is it bad?" he asked, looking at the blood on his hands. Kenny shook his head.

"It...it's nearly healed. That punk was right, you aren't quite human, are you? I mean, you moved so fast I could hardly see. And that gun…"

Kenny knelt, and picked up the gun. It looked like a lump of twisted playdough. Grant tuned away, hiding his face.

"The cut wasn't as bad as it looked," he offered. "The rest was adrenaline."

"Okay, what about yesterday? I saw you pick up that engine block through the window. Sucker must have weighed three hundred pounds, and you carried it to the other end of the garage. I couldn't have done it on my best day. You did it like it was a box of tissue paper."

Grant stood there. No words would come. Kenny set the ruined gun on the counter and put a hand on Grants shoulder.

"Kid, it's all right. You can level with me. I know you're on the run from something, and now, seeing what you just did...I think I know. You're a mutant, aren't you?"

Grant smiled, then laughed. "No, I'm not a mutant. I can't tell you anymore than that. I'm sorry. You're right, I am on the run, but I'm not a mutant."

"It'd be alright with me if you were," the big man said, handing him a clean rag. "I'm no bigot."

"I know you're not," Grant said, taking the rag and wiping the blood from his face. He could feel the gash on his cheek and shoulder knitting as he talked, the amazing power his father had given him working wonders. He set the rag down and looked at Kenny. "You're a good man, Kenny. I hate to run on you, but the cops are coming. I haven't done anything illegal, I swear...but I can't be around to answer questions."

"The cops? I don't hear sirens."

"You will in a few minutes. I gotta go, I'm sorry," Grant said, turning to leave. Yet again, Kenny reached out, stopping him. Grant turned, and Kenny pressed something in his hands. It was the keys to the truck.

"This was your father's truck. I can't take it."

Kenny smiled. "Sure you can. I wasn't going to let those scumbags have it, but I'd be proud to give it you. You saved my life, kid. It's got a full tank. Wait a second," he said, kneeling. "The little punks didn't ask if I had a safe," he said, spinning the combination. He stood a second later, pushing a few hundred-dollar bills into his shirt pocket.

"Kenny, it's too much. You lost a whole night's business."

"Cheaper than my life, kid. Go. Wherever it is your heading, get there safe. When you can, give me a call, let me know you're okay."

Grant stared at the man, hearing the sirens grow closer. He picked up his backpack and slipped it on.

"Thanks, Kenny...for everything."

Grant threw his arms around the man's broad shoulders, hugging him. Kenny patted his back. As the sirens grew close enough for even Kenny to hear, Grant headed out of the store. He jumped into the vintage Ford, seeing his reflection in the rearview mirror. The gash was maybe eighty percent healed. He also noticed the hint of tears in his eyes. He rubbed them away, chiding himself. He had to put this kid stuff behind him. Starting the engine, which Kenny had kept in mint condition, Grant pulled out of the parking lot with a small squeal of rubber. As the first glow of police flashers appeared in the rearview, he was already pulling onto the on-ramp. Seconds later, the truck was motoring down the highway, heading due east


	7. Chapter 7 Highway Star

.

**Chapter 7**

**Highway Star**

Seattle

Fury sat watching his son, who looked like he'd rather be anywhere than standing here in this living room. Quartermain's words kept intruding on his thoughts. He dismissed them, and continued to watch, and wait. Marcus looked so much like his mother. He had her dark brown skin, obviously, but also her softly curving jaw line, and her finely chiseled cheekbones. Her beauty was delicate, but on Marcus, it looked strong and impervious. He moved like her, possessing her dancers grace and poise, but again, where her precision was delicate, in Marcus, it was formidable. He looked like her in every way, except for his eyes. Those eyes were his, Fury noted. Sharp and penetrating, yet able to hold their secrets. Fury sat, keeping his silence, allowing his son to speak first. Finally, he did.

"Nice place," Marcus said, glancing around him.

Fury nodded. "Thank you. Why don't you sit down. I find it makes talking more comfortable."

"Thank you, Colonel, but I—"

"Marcus, for Christ's sake, sit down."

Marcus went to speak. Instead, he sat, perching himself on the edge of the couch.

"That's a start," Fury said. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No. Thank you. I'm here to talk about Agent Carter and her son. I don't know if you've heard the latest, but—"

"That Carter's gone dark? I've heard."

Marcus focused his penetrating eyes on him. "Do you know where she is?"

"No."

"Would you tell me if you did?"

"No. But I would tell you that I wouldn't tell you."

Marcus laughed. "I'm sure that's supposed to sound good."

"It's the truth, Marcus, that's what it's supposed to sound like. Sharon is one of my oldest friends, and I owe her my loyalty. I'm not sure why she's gone off the grid, but I know she has her reasons."

"We're still trying to determine why that strike team went after her. I think you know why, Colonel, and—"

"Father. You want something from me, correct? Well, my price is, you call me father, or dad. I'll settle for pop but save Colonel for your own time."

Marcus stood up. "That's right, Nick, you're my father. I remember seeing you every other Christmas, and the occasional birthday. I was really impressed when you made my high school graduation party."

"Yeah, I wasn't there for much. I'm sorry. Maybe we can set that aside and focus on the mission at hand."

"Okay, _dad_. The mission is finding Carter and her son, and you've been holding out on me. I think you know why that team went after them."

"That's right. I do."

That bit of honesty jarred Marcus off track. He quickly regrouped. "You know but you won't tell me, that it?"

Fury stood. "No. I'll tell you. But I'm going to need a drink first."

He walked to his kitchen, and Marcus followed. Searching his wine rack, Fury came up with a bottle. "Chateau Margaux, Sauvignon blanc. 85. Very good year," he said, taking two glasses from the cabinet.

"Colonel—" Marcus started to say. Fury shot him a look. "Dad. I came here to talk, not drink."

"We do both, or neither. That's my bargain," he said, popping the cork. "Cut us some wedges of that Beaufort cheese, would you?"

Sighing, Marcus turned to the counter, where a wheel of cheese sat under a glass dome. Opening it, he cut several wedges. "Strong," he said, wrinkling his nose at the pungent aroma coming off the creamy white cheese.

"Strong is good," Fury replied, handing a plate to Marcus. Taking the bottle and the glasses, Fury headed to the dining table. Marcus followed. Fury set the glasses down and poured.

"We sit, and drink like civilized men."

Marcus laid the plate of cheese on the table and took a seat. He lifted his glass to his mouth, but Fury stopped him.

"Aerate it," he said, moving the glass in slow circles, making the wine swirl. "The oxygen releases the flavor. When you drink, don't swallow right away, let it roll around, and cover your entire pallet."

Marcus copied Fury, awkwardly at first, then getting the rhythm, rotating his glass until the wine began to swirl briskly. Fury slowed, and then stopped, and Marcus followed. They drank. Marcus rolled the wine around in his mouth for several seconds, and then swallowed. Fury slid the plate of cheese towards him, and Marcus popped a wedge into his mouth. His eyes widened, making Fury smile.

"Good, isn't it?"

Marcus was quiet for a moment. "It's not bad," he admitted.

"Let's have another," Fury said, refilling their glasses. "This time inhale the aroma. Half the pleasure of a good wine is in the smell."

"I've always been a beer guy. I thought whiskey was your drink?"

"Everything in its time and place," Fury said. "Whiskey's fine, beer too. Right now, we're drinking wine. And there's a right way to do it."

Marcus followed Fury's lead, this time putting the glass up to his nose, inhaling deeply before drinking. After, they swallowed their wedges of cheese, the sharp flavor enhancing the wine's bouquet. Marcus set his glass down.

"All right, that was good, I admit it. Now let's talk about Carter."

"First, let's talk about Quartermain. He's playing us against one another. You know that don't you?"

"He's trying to get results, I understand."

"He thinks someone on your team may be dirty. Are you aware?"

Marcus slowly shook his head. Fury went on.

"He thinks maybe it's you."

This time, Marcus sat in silence, a small look of shock in his eyes that he quickly withdrew. He looked at Fury. "What do you think?"

"I considered it for a moment. Then I remembered who you are, and that there was no goddamn way it was true."

"Why? Because no son of Nick Fury's could be dirty?"

Fury shook his head. "No. Because no son of Nia's could be dirty. Ever. She was the best woman I knew, and she raised you right."

The apartment grew deathly silent, as the two men looked at one another. Emotion played across Marcus's face, defying his best efforts to conceal it.

"Then why did you leave her? Why break her heart?"

"There are a lot of ways to break a woman's heart. Staying with Nia would have been the worst way. I couldn't be faithful to her. I'm not as smart as you, Marcus. I followed all my father's worst traits. The mighty Nathan Custis Fury, four-star general, never met an enemy he couldn't defeat, or a woman he didn't try to bed. When it comes to love, I'm a world class failure. The job was the only thing I was ever any good at. Might be the one thing you and I have in common."

"She died still loving you."

Fury nodded. "And I'll die still loving her. I can't erase the times I let her down, any more than I can undo the times I let you down. But maybe I can do better in the future. I'd like to try."

Marcus stood, and walked to the other side of the dining room, where a recessed bookcase lined the wall. The top shelf held several framed photographs. One was of Nia, young, and beautiful, light-years away from the horrors of cancer. Marcus stared at the photo for several long seconds. Then he turned to Fury.

"Okay. How do you propose we start?"

Fury smiled. "We do the job. You asked why that strike team was after Sharon Carter. The answer is they weren't. They were after her son. What do you know about Grant's father?"

"William Riley. According to the files, he was a local—"

Fury shook his head. "The files are bogus. Riley was fiction, he only existed on paper. Carter created him to hide the identity of the boy's _real_ father, a man who died almost eighteen years ago."

Marcus's eyes shone with avid curiosity. "And he was…?"

"Steve Rogers. You know him better by his other name. Captain America."

Marcus's mouth fell open. After several seconds passed, he spoke. "Holy...are you kidding me?"

Again, Fury shook his head. "Grant's DNA carries the only viable sample of the Super Soldier Serum in existence."

"Is it active? I mean, does the boy have his father's power?"

Fury nodded. "I saw it firsthand. It's the reason that strike team was after him—and they won't be the only ones. That's why Sharon's off the grid. She knows someone in SHIELD is dirty on this, and that her son won't be safe until that person is found. I'm going to help her, and then I'm going to take the fight to the bastards behind this. My question is, are you with me?"

"That means going rogue. It might cost me my career with SHIELD."

"It might."

Fury watched as Marcus stood in silent thought. He saw Nia in his son's face, and that made him happy...but he saw himself in his eyes, and that made him happier than Marcus would ever believe.

"Okay, pop," Marcus said, a small smile forming on his handsome face. "I'm with you. Let's get to work"

* * *

Columbus, Ohio

As he steered the truck onto the off-ramp, Grant took his wallet from his back pocket, and made a quick count. Along with the loose change in the truck's side compartment, he had a little over five-hundred dollars, plenty to get him to his destination. He spotted a gas station, a full-service place for interstate truckers, and wheeled the truck up to the pump. He'd been driving for ten hours and was more than ready for a break. As he opened the door and swung his feet to the asphalt, he noticed that his clothes felt tight, like they'd shrunk somehow. Looking down, he saw his jeans had ridden up, exposing his ankles. He tugged his trousers down to lower the gap, and then filled the tank. Kenny must have kept the engine tuned up and running perfectly, judging by the good mileage the truck got. Another thing he had to thank him for.

Grant pulled over to the parking area after filling the tank. There was a diner attached to the gas station, and his growling stomach was demanding food. He caught his reflection in the glass as he approached the door, and the image stopped him in his tracks; it wasn't just his pant legs that had gone short on him, his shirt was also tight, looking a full size too small, straining at his chest and shoulders. Even his shoes felt snug. There was a shopping mall across from the gas station; he would have to stop and buy some new clothes, eating into his budget. It occurred to him he might not be done growing even now. There was so much about the Super Soldier serum he didn't know. Once he got to where he was going, maybe he could finally start getting some answers.

After paying his bill, he headed over to the diner area, where he noticed a set of scales off by the restrooms. Feeling a little self-conscious with the crowd of people buzzing around, he stood on the scales, and stuck two quarters into the slot. He expected some weight gain, but the number on the digital readout shocked him: two hundred and fifty-seven pounds. He had gained nearly forty pounds since he last weighed himself at Kenny's, not even a week ago! No wonder his clothes felt tight. There was a height scale against the wall. Grant stood against it, his back to the wall, and put his hand on his head, marking the spot. Stepping back, read the numbers. Six foot-four. Barely two months ago, he had stood six foot, and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. He stared at his arms, his biceps straining his shirtsleeves like a bodybuilder...only he was far stronger than any bodybuilder. The energy coursing through his body was incredible. He wondered if he'd wasted his money filling the tank; he almost felt as if he could run clear across the country.

Finding a seat in the diner, Grant ordered a stack of pancakes, eggs, and sausage, which he washed down with a large mug of coffee. On the wall, a mounted television was playing the local news. His attention perked up at the weather report. There was a high-pressure system moving in, bringing a chance of storms. That might slow him down some, but unless it was severe, he planned to power through; he wanted to be in DC tomorrow morning. As the news switched to local events, the waitress, a pretty woman who looked to be in her thirties, came over to clear his plates.

"Get you anything else?" she asked, about to set the check on the table. Grant gave a sheepish smile.

"Actually, could I get another?"

Her eyes went wide. "You mean another whole order? Wow, you can really put it away. Looks like it goes to all the right places, though."

The woman flashed a smile that was a little more than friendly, making him blush. As she bustled away to get his food, Grant took the cell phone from his pocket. After calling his mom the other night, he'd gotten up the courage to finally call Allison, but the call went straight to voicemail so he hung up, knowing it would be impossible to explain this over a message. He tried again this morning, but there was still no answer. She wouldn't recognize this number, of course, but it wasn't like her not to answer her phone. He punched in her number, and her message immediately played.

_Hi, it's me. Leave a message._

The beep sounded. Cupping the phone to his ear to block out the noise of the busy diner, Grant spoke.

"Allison...it's me. I'm okay. Look, I know you must be worried, and I know you have a million questions. I'll answer them all, I swear, but it's too complicated to get into over a message. I'll call you again tonight. Please answer, okay? I'm sorry about all this mess. I...I love you."

He hung up. It worried him that she wasn't answering. For a moment, he considered calling her folks over their landline, but what would he possibly say to them? Slipping the phone back into his pocket, the television caught his attention. The coverage had switched from local to national news. On screen were Reed Richards and the other members of the Fantastic Four, in Washington to brief the government on some crisis brewing in Latveria. He had seen superheroes on television a million times, it was a common enough sight...but it had taken on a new meaning for him ever since these powers had come to him. When his father was alive, he would have been in the thick of a situation involving Doctor Doom. Was it really possible that things like that could be in his future? As the waitress walked over with another plate of food, Grant sighed, his mind split between the road lying before him, and the one lying behind him. He dug into his second meal, trying not to worry about Allison.

* * *

Illinois 

Kenny looked up as the bell over the door to his filling station rang. The man walking into his store wasn't just big; he was enormous, the biggest man he'd ever seen. He stepped up to the counter, a broad smile creasing his granite-hard face. His clothes were black, looking almost like the tactical fatigues that Special Forces soldiers wear. His shaved head gleamed, and his leather boots creaked. Something about the man sent a chill down Kenny's spine. Kenny wasn't easily spooked, not even by giants like this man...but he was spooked now, all the same. The man stood there, smiling, and silent.

"What can I do for you?" Kenny asked.

"The girl's filling her up," the big man said, his voice like a bass drum, with the raspy cutting edge of a rusty saw. Out by the pumps, a young girl was standing outside of a black Escalade SUV, pumping the gas. Something about her expression was troubling, a mix of exhaustion and quiet despair. The pump shut off, and Kenny rang up the purchase.

"Comes to eighty dollars. Anything else?"

The man grabbed a pack of gum from the stand and tossed it on the counter. He pushed two fifty-dollar bills across the counter, looking around the empty store with pretend interest, before turning back to Kenny. "Hey, didn't I hear about this place? You're the ones got robbed the other night, right?"

Kenny popped the fifties into the register and made change. "Yeah, that was us. Couple of punks pulled a stick up."

The man scooped up the gum and change in an enormous hand. He peeled out a stick. "That must have been hairy. But then, I heard you had a guardian angel to see you through."

"You hear a lot."

The big man's smile grew wider. "I listen to the police band as I drive. Better than talk radio. So, this guardian angel, was he someone you know?"

Kenny drew himself up to his full six foot two, feeling he could still disappear in the man's shadow. "I don't know who he was. Just a customer, happened to be here when it went down. Took off afterwards."

"Oh, I see. Just took off." The man popped the gum into his mouth, chomping it with his vicious smile as the wrapper dropped to the floor. "I heard this guy was freaky strong, that he crushed the holdup man's gun with his bare hands. Is that true?"

Kenny glared at the big man. "I never said anything like that in my report."

"Well, I must have heard it somewhere. You know how people talk." He leaned forward with his hand on the counter, the wood frame groaning under the weight. "You don't happen to know where this guardian angel was headed, do you?"

"You mind me asking what business it is of yours?"

The man's smile grew colder, like an iceberg cutting across a frozen ocean. "It caught my attention, that's all. Some kid in a pissant gas station, in the middle of buttfuck Egypt, throwing crooks around like he was a ten cent superhero, I find that interesting, don't you?"

Beneath the counter, Kenny groped for the baseball bat he kept at hand since the robbery. "Who said anything about him being a kid? Look, who are you, mister?"

"What's in a name, pal? Call me Bones." The smile was hard and mocking now, like polished Juicy Fruit daggers. "Now, about this guardian angel I find so interesting. You tell me what you know about him, and I'll be on my way. Otherwise...I'm going to start thinking maybe you're not my pal after all."

Kenny had been a roughneck as a young man, riding motorcycles, getting into his share of bar fights. He had a good instinct for when things were about to get sporty, and right now, his instincts screamed danger. Beneath the counter, his hand found the bat, and he wrapped his fist around the handle. He was certain the man would take it from him with the ease of a malicious child pulling wings from a fly, just as he was certain that even with the bat, he could no more overcome him than he could the man on the moon. What other choice did he have?

A tone sounded from the big man's pocket. He pulled out a cell phone, the case sparkly pink, with unicorns on it. He punched in a code, and put the phone to his ear. As he listened, his smile took on a jolly good nature. After a moment passed, he popped the phone back in his pocket. His hand came out holding a hundred-dollar bill. He slapped it down on the counter. "For the girl," he said, grabbing a candy bar.

"I can't make change for this," Kenny protested, holding up the hundred.

"Keep it," the big man said, grinning. "This is your lucky day, pal."

Kenny fumbled for a reply. Before he could find one, the man walked out of the store and got into his SUV. As the vehicle pulled away, Kenny saw the girl in the passenger seat, a look of pleading in her eyes. It broke his inaction. He raced to the door, trying to make out the license plate number, but the Escalade was too far down the road. He stood there long after it had passed from sight, cursing himself for being too damned slow, and too damned chickenshit to act. Maybe he should call the cops, but what could he tell them? Be on the lookout for a giant in a black SUV, wanted on suspicion of being scary as hell? As Kenny closed the door, his thoughts went to Grant.

"Kid...what the hell kind of trouble did you get yourself into?"

**. . .**

Allison stood as the SUVs tank filled with gasoline, considering her options. She could run, but she knew she wouldn't get away. She tried it before, back in Oregon, the first time they stopped for gas. Bones caught her with ease. He'd thrown her back into the car so hard it almost knocked her unconscious. The side of her head was still tender and bruised. If she ran this time, the man at the gas station would pay with his life. She could try to warn him, signal him somehow, but again, it would mean his death. She expected Bones to kill him anyway. So much for her options.

The pump shut off, and she got back into the SUV, the whole time watching in dread as Bones talked to the man. He was big and stout, the kind of man who looked like he could take care of himself...but no one could stop Bones, she was certain of that. Maybe a superhero like Iron Man, or Thor, or Captain Marvel, but they lived in a fairytale world. Bones lived here, in the real world, and he was too big, too strong, and too good at killing for people who lived in the real world.

She let out a shaky breath as Bones left the store, with the man inside still alive. Bones got into the SUV, which jostled with his weight.

"Here you go," he said, tossing her a Milky Way candy bar. She let it lay in her lap. He stared at her. "No thank you? Didn't your parents teach you manners?"

"They taught me not to get into cars or take candy from strangers," she answered. Bones threw his head back and roared with laughter.

"I like you, kid! But after ten days together, we're hardly strangers. Eat up."

He started the engine and pulled away from the pumps. She considered leaving the candy bar alone...but she was hungry. As she tore the wrapper, she saw the man from the gas station looking at her, his face pressed against the glass door. She wondered if he knew how close to death he'd just come? Seconds later, the SUV was roaring down the highway. She took small bites of the candy bar, as Bones watched her from the corner of his eye. He seemed to be weighing some decision; she'd learned to judge his moods. He reached into his pocket, taking out her cell phone.

"You've been a good girl, so I'm going to reward you." He held out the phone. "You got a message from your boyfriend."

Allison let the candy bar drop. She took the phone, but Bones held on, stopping her.

"You know better than to do anything stupid. Don't call anyone, don't text. Just listen to the message. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," she said. He let go of the phone. With a trembling hand, she played the voicemail.

_Allison...it's me. I'm okay. Look, I know you must be worried, and I know you have a million questions. I'll answer them all, I swear, but it's too complicated to get into over a message. I'll call you again tonight. Please answer, okay? I'm sorry about all this mess. I...I love you._

The message ended, and tears filled her eyes. She moved her finger to replay the message, but Bones snatched the phone from her hand.

"Once is enough," he said.

"Please," she said, reaching for the phone. He shot her a look.

"We had a deal. Don't make me regret it."

Allison tried not to cry, but she couldn't help it. Hearing Grant's voice tore her heart in two. He didn't know what was happening to her. Neither did her parents. She was alone, trapped in a nightmare with a psychopathic killer, who now had his sights set on the boy she loved. As tears streamed down her cheeks, Bones took out his own phone, and placed a call.

"Put me through to communications." A second passed. "I'm sending you a voicemail. I need an audio enhance on the background, anything that will tell me where the call originated from."

Bones sent the message from her phone. He turned on the stereo, connecting the audio to his phone, and waited. Seconds passed. As the seconds accumulated to minutes, a voice came over the SUVs stereo.

"We've isolated the background audio. Many incidental voices, bits of stray conversation, nothing conclusive...but we have what appears to be a television newscast. I'm playing it now," the voice said. A second passed, and then voices came over the speakers, one voice boosted above the others.

_...in local news, Governor Milligan is meeting with key leaders in the Statehouse today, pushing his agenda on education reform. The meeting will focus on_—

"Milligan," Bones interrupted, his voice edged with excitement. "What state is he from?"

"George Milligan is the Governor of Ohio. We believe the news broadcast originated from the capital city, Columbus."

Bones pounded the dashboard, nearly cracking it. "Ha! Good work. Were you able to get the phone number?"

"No, but we've established a connection to the receiving cell phone. The next time he calls, try to keep him on the line. We need sixty seconds to establish a trace."

"Sixty-seconds, got it. Tell Viper I'm closing in. Crossbones out."

Allison's tears stopped. Fear had frozen them. Crossbones turned to her, and she could feel eagerness practically radiating from his pores.

"Your boyfriend is going to be calling in a few hours. Won't it be nice to talk to him again?"

"I won't answer. I won't help you trap him."

"Now, Allison…"

"I won't!"

Bones chuckled. "I admire your loyalty. You're a real catch." He reached out, touching her cheek with a softness she didn't believe he was capable of. It made her blood go cold. She tried not to shudder as he went on.

"We're taking that call. I told you I'd let you go once this was over, and I will...just so long as you cooperate." His hand, gentle a moment before, clamped on her chin, the pressure slowly increasing until Allison feared her jaw would shatter. He turned her face towards his, until she was staring into his cold, gray eyes. "You _are _going to behave, aren't you?"

"Y...yes."

He released his grip, and Allison felt welts forming around her jaw. "That's my girl," Bones said, almost tenderly. "Fasten your seatbelt, sweetie...we're off to the Buckeye state!"

Bones punched information into his dashboard computer screen. A GPS digital map appeared, showing their destination: Columbus was five hours away. From the corner of her eyes, she looked at the monster sitting beside her, massive, inhumanly strong, armed to the teeth, able to kill with laughter on his evil lips. And he was hunting the boy she loved. Bones turned on the radio, tuning in another of his classic rock songs. He shouted out in a satisfied voice.

"Deep Purple! It doesn't get better than this when you're starting a road trip!"

As Bones started singing something about a _Highway Star_, Allison said a silent prayer.

_Grant...please don't call again. Please. _

But she knew that he would.


	8. Chapter 8 Riders on the Storm

.

** 8**

**Riders on the Storm**

The outskirts of Columbus

Grant awoke with a start. His neck was stiff, and he could feel the imprint of the steering wheel stamped on his forehead. Stretching as best he could in the cramped space of the truck cab, he picked up his cell phone and checked the time. Nearly seven. There wasn't much sunlight left in the day, but enough to show the roadside rest was deserted. He had stopped here after shopping for new clothes, when a sudden tiredness crashed down on him. It had happened a few times since gaining his powers two months ago, and he was beginning to see a pattern. Whenever he experienced a growth spurt, he went through a short period of fatigue. It made sense. A person can't add forty pounds of muscle overnight without it taking a toll.

He was wide-awake now, his energy up, but he'd missed a big chunk of driving time. He'd hoped to be in DC early tomorrow morning. To do that now meant driving straight through the night. He supposed he could do it, with the sleep he'd just gotten, but another check of the skies made him wonder. There was a storm front moving in. If he was going to go, he'd better do it soon—but first, he needed to call Allison.

He picked up the phone. If she didn't answer this time, he would call her house. That idea didn't thrill him. He didn't know what he would say to her parents. He didn't know what he was going to say to Allison, for that matter. With his thumb hovering over the redial button, he made a test run in his mind.

_Hi, Allison. Sorry I ran out on you, but I can explain. The thing is, my father was Captain America, and it turns out I have superpowers now—which would be cool, except there are assassins after me, trying to steal the super-junk in my blood. So I had to run away to keep you and mom safe. Oh, yeah, my mom is actually a badass secret agent with SHIELD. Thanks, sweetie, I knew you'd understand._

Grant nearly laughed. It was almost like something from a movie, but he was discovering that things that are funny or exciting in movies are way different in real life. Feeling a knot of nerves form in his stomach, which was growing hungry again (another twist he would have to get used to, apparently), he pressed redial.

The phone rang—it didn't go straight to voicemail this time. Grant sat up, anxiously. A third ring. A fourth.

"Come on, Allison, pick up," he whispered. The line picked up.

"G...Grant?"

There was tension in her voice. "I'm here. sweetie. What's wrong?"

"Grant, don't come! It's a trap! Don't—"

"Allison? Allison!"

Grant gripped the phone tight, nearly crushing it. There was the sound of commotion over the line, followed by a heartbeat of silence. Then, a voice spoke. Not Allison. A deep, jolly voice filled with menace.

"Hiya, pal."

Fear rose from the pit of Grant's stomach, clutching his throat like a hand of ice.

"Who are you? Where's Allison?"

"She's right here, safe and sound. You be smart, she'll stay that way."

"You son of a bitch, if you hurt her, I'll—"

The sound of Allison screaming cut him off mid-sentence. The deep voice returned.

"Was that playing it smart? Here's how this is going to work. I talk, you listen. Got it?"

"Yes."

"That's good. You know, I played out a scene just exactly like this one with your papa, once upon a time. He knew I wasn't a bluffing man, but you're just going to have to take it on faith. You do exactly as I say...or Allison pays the price. You don't want that, do you?"

"No. What do you want?"

"Now that's what I like to hear! Smart, cooperative. We can do business. I want a simple exchange, you for the girl."

"What do you want with me?"

"Don't play dumb, kid. You have something swimming around in your bloodstream that my friends want a gander at. No one's looking to hurt you. Hell, play your cards right, you can have a job. Lot of money for a guy with your talents. But regardless, we need what's in your blood. That's why I brought your girl, to make sure you cooperate."

"How do I know you really have her?" Grant's asked. It was a desperate stall, but the only thing he had. "It's easy to fake voices."

The man sighed. "Really? Look, I'll send you a pic."

"You can't, my phone doesn't do video."

"You're joking."

"It's a piece of junk, it's all I could afford."

The line was muffled. He could hear the man talking to Allison: _Tell me something about the kid only you would know._ There was a moment of silence, followed by Allison's whispering voice. Grant couldn't make out her words. The deep voice boomed laughter.

"Allison says you have two moles on either hip, she calls them Lefty and Pancho. You dog you. And here I thought little Allie was as innocent as a church mouse. What's that Oregon honey taste like, anyway?"

"Shut up! Don't you talk about her!"

"I'll give you that one, kid. Give me grief again, I hurt her." Grant stayed silent. "Good. Your phone, does it have GPS?"

"No."

"Jesus, what'd you do, get a time machine and buy a phone from the 90s? All right, stay put, I'll come to you. According to my trace, you're at rest stop 131, off I-70, near Buckeye Lake. Anyone there?"

Grant looked around. "No."

"Good. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Don't call the cops, or I drive right on by. And little Allie pays for it. Got me?"

"I won't call the cops, I swear. Let me talk to her again, please."

"No can do. You cooperate, and she'll come through okay. See you soon."

"Wait...who are you?"

The mocking tone was back. "What's in a name, pal? Call me Bones."

The line went dead. Grant sat in the truck, staring at the phone in his trembling hand. Bones was a liar; it was in his voice. Maybe he didn't want to kill Allison, but he would. It would be the simplest way to tie up loose ends. Guys like him are all about tying up loose ends. What did an assassin care about one girl's life?

Grant set the phone down, feeling numb. He was afraid. How many times these past two months had he secretly taken pleasure in this power he'd gained? How many times had he lifted an engine block, a tractor plow, a fallen tree, marveling at his strength? How many times had he leapt over Willet Creek, clearing the forty-foot gap with ease? Since learning the truth about his father, he'd entertained daydreams of following in his footsteps, of donning a mask and playing at being a superhero. Well, the moment was here now, only it wasn't a game. It was as serious as life and death—Allison's life, and maybe her…

No. He wouldn't let that happen. He'd been telling himself for weeks he had to grow up and put boyhood behind him. That time was here, right now. He stared at himself in the rearview mirror, meeting his own gaze, making his eyes hard. He clenched his hand into a fist, a fist that could shatter concrete, backed by arms that could bend steel. Okay, he wasn't a superhero—he wasn't his father—but he was strong, and fast, and he had something worth fighting for. Worth dying for, if need be. No matter what it took, he would _not_ let Allison die.

Grant checked the time; Bone's would be here in eleven minutes. No more time to waste. As the winds picked up, scattering bits of leaves and debris over the deserted rest stop, Grant opened his duffel bag, and took out his energy gun, and a spare magazine.

"Thanks for teaching me all this stuff, mom," he whispered, taking the casing off the magazine. Grant got to work, preparing to greet Bones.

* * *

New York

Sharon stood in the shadows, looking at the dilapidated building. The few workstations and drill presses that were once stored here were long gone. All that remained was dust on the floors, and graffiti on the walls. The place still looked familiar. She wasn't given to sentimentality, and certainly didn't expect to feel nostalgic over some rundown, abandoned building, yet there is was. She walked across the pitted and stained concrete floor, thinking of the last time she'd been here; eighteen years ago, her last mission before leaving SHIELD. As she stood in the darkness, it seemed to her that ghosts flitted past. She tried to dismiss them, but ghosts are stubborn things, with minds of their own. They could keep company with her, at least until her contact arrived. She pulled out her phone to check the time, when a voice spoke from behind her.

"Sorry I'm late."

Sharon turned, seeing a man half concealed in the shadows. "Didn't think you could sneak up on me. Glad to see you've kept up on your skills."

The man shrugged. "Your mind was elsewhere."

"Hmm. Your right. _I'm_ the one who needs to brush up on _her _skills. How are you, Clint?"

"I can still nock my arrows."

Clint Barton stepped into the shafts of dappled light slanting down from the broken skylights. He was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a tan work shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His waist was slim, and his arms were thick with ropy muscle. He smiled at Sharon, making the skin around his mouth and eyes crinkle with fine lines. Sharon walked up to him, reaching out to stroke his beard, golden-red, and streaked with gray.

"Old man Barton. It looks good on you."

"I just got back from a few days in the mountains. Haven't shed my wilderness look yet," he said. He eyed her. "I see you're dressed for business."

Sharon glanced at her tactical outfit, running her hands down her hips. "It's the first time I've had it on in eighteen years. I was afraid it wouldn't fit. I'm not quite the woman I was."

"You're twice the woman you were. Eighteen years looks good on you."

Sharon smiled, and moved to kiss his cheek. Clint pulled her closer, intercepting her mouth with his, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. Sharon let him, and then kissed him back. Clint put his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, leaning into the kiss, which lingered for several seconds, until Sharon gradually pulled back.

"Clint...let's not go down that road again."

"But it's such a nice road," he said, smiling, his arms still lightly draped around her waist.

"The first half is. It's that second part we could never quite manage."

"You know what they say. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again…"

Clint moved to resume their kiss. Sharon put her hand on his chest, with gentle firmness. Clint raised his hands and stepped back.

"All right. It's nice seeing you again, Sharon. Been too long."

"Keeping up with old friends has never been my strong suit."

"It that all we are? Old friends?"

"Clint…"

He put his hands up again. "Okay, okay, we'll leave that aside. So...meeting up in our old headquarters, you wearing that tactical suit, I'm guessing you didn't call me here just to talk about old times?"

"No. I have problems. It's my son."

"Greg?"

Sharon let out a breath of frustration. "Grant, Clint. His name is Grant. This is one of those 'second part of the road' problems."

"Give me a break, I haven't seen him since he was ten. He'd be what, sixteen now? Going on seventeen?"

"No. Seventeen going on eighteen."

Clint counted, silently. "That doesn't add up."

Sharon dropped her head. "Grant is a year older than I told you. I've tried to keep the facts about him secret, but those secrets are getting out now. He's in trouble, Clint...and I need help."

"You've got it. Tell me what the problem is."

Sharon sighed. "You better sit down first."

**. . .**

Five minutes later, Sharon had told the story. She watched Clint sit on the dusty crate, processing the information. Seconds passed. Finally, he looked at her, and spoke.

"Steve. He's Steve's son. You told me his father was a man you met in Oregon, who died in a mill accident."

"I'm sorry, Clint. It's...complicated."

Clint's dazed look evaporated, replaced by anger. "Complicated hell. You lied to me."

"I was protecting my son. Try to understand."

"Protecting him from who? Me?"

"From the world," Sharon said, her words growing crisp. "From the kind of people who are after him now. The only way I knew to protect him was to establish a deep cover. That meant keeping a total seal in place."

Clint's eyes flared, angrily. "Do you really buy this spy bullshit you sling around? Lies don't keep people safe, Sharon, they just keep people apart. If I'd known, if the others had known, we could have helped you. The Avengers would have had your back. You and Grant, both."

"The Avengers? Would they fly out to Oregon daily, walk patrols around the farm?"

"Hell, you could have lived in the mansion, Sharon!"

"I didn't want him to live in the damned mansion! I wasn't going to let my son grow up in Tony Stark's high-tech fishbowl, with the media scrutinizing him day and night, breaking him under the weight of being Captain America's son! I saw what that pressure did to Steve, the burden he carried. I didn't want that for Grant. I wanted him to grow up in a real home, live a normal life."

"Yeah? How'd that work out for you?"

Sharon's face flushed white. She turned and stalked towards the door. Clint hurried after her, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"Sharon...I'm sorry."

Sharon shrugged free and walked on. Clint caught up, running around to face her.

"Sharon, please, don't go. That was an asshole thing I said, I'm sorry. I guess my feelings were hurt that you didn't trust me, but I know you were just trying to keep him safe. For what it's worth, you did the right thing. Raising him in the spotlight of the Avengers...hell, no kid should go through that. I've seen what a good mother you are, no one could have done a better job raising the boy. I know you're hurting. Let me help you, please."

She lifted her head to look at him. There were tears in the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and nodded.

"Good," Clint said. "Let's concentrate on where he's heading. Do you have any ideas?"

Sharon shook her head. "Everyone he knows is from Oregon. I have no clue where he's heading. I'm worried, Clint. No, I'm terrified. He has Steve's power, but it's all new to him. I've given him some training, but he's never had to face real danger. He's out there, alone, against trained operatives, and killers..."

Tears spilled down Sharon's face. Clint pulled her close, holding her. "It'll be alright," he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. "We'll find him. I swear to you, we'll find him."

The embrace lasted for several seconds, until Sharon pulled back. The strain was still in her eyes, but the tears were gone. "I can't afford to break down like this," she said, quietly. "Don't let me go soft again."

"Soft? You must be talking about someone else. You're Agent 13...the best there is. But even the best can use some help. I know just who to call."

Sharon looked at him, askance. "We need precision tools for this operation. The Avengers are a jackhammer."

"I'm not talking about the whole team, just a friend. You trust me, right?"

Slowly, with a little reservation, Sharon nodded. Clint smiled.

"Well, I trust _her. _Let's go talk to Kate. Hey, two Hawkeyes are better than one, you know."

Sharon nodded again, with a little less reservation. She and Clint slipped out of the derelict building, leaving the shadows to keep company with yesterday's ghosts.

* * *

Columbus

Crossbones pulled off the highway, steering slowly towards the roadside rest. As the SUV rounded the corner and cleared the stand of pine trees, the headlights illuminated the lone vehicle in the lot, an older model Ford pickup. A tall young man was standing in front of the truck. Bones stopped the SUV and turned to the girl in the passenger seat.

"That your boyfriend?"

Allison didn't answer, she only stared ahead, her face ashen.

"Yeah, it's him," Bones said, chuckling softly. He looked at Grant, nodding appreciatively. "He didn't run. Good for him."

Bones goosed the accelerator, wheeling the Escalade into the parking lot, until it was facing the truck, twenty yards away. He shut the engine off but left the lights on.

"Got to put my game face on," Bones said.

He took a scrap of cloth from the center console and pulled it over his head. A mask, Allison saw, black, except for the face, which was pale white, bearing the image of a skull. If she found him frightening before, he was terrifying now, his blank white eyes staring at her like twin moons.

Bones turned, reaching to the back seat. Allison tried to make eye contact with Grant, but the headlights were directly in his eyes, making him squint. She doubted he could see her. She switched her focus, staring from the corner of her eye, a skill she had mastered over the past ten days. There were piles of weapons on the backseat, all securely locked, and dozens more stashed in the rear hatch. Bones opened a case that was sitting on the seat, and took out some type of harness, made of steel and leather. It had chrome steel locks, and electric leads strung throughout it, the kind doctors use to shock patients back to life. Allison doubted they were for such a wholesome purpose. Bones turned back around.

"For Grant," he said, draping the device over his shoulder. "It'll gentle him down."

Allison shuddered. "You're evil."

"No, honey, I'm a survivor. It's the world that's evil. It eats innocent little girls and boys every day, and never sheds a tear. Only way to survive in this evil world is to be strong. And me...I'm a survivor."

He picked up something that looked like a large bracelet and tossed it to her. It landed in her lap with a heavy thump.

"Put that on," he said. "Never mind asking why, just put it on."

The metal bracelet, half an inch thick and nearly as long as her forearm, was hinged. She laid her arm in it, and it swung closed, locking with a small click. A LED light blinked on, pale green. He grabbed her free hand and pulled her over to his side.

"Okay, we're getting out," he said, opening his door. "We're almost at the finish line, Allie. Just do what I tell you, and everything will be alright."

And as she looked into the blank whiteness of his eyes, Allison knew he was lying.

**. . .**

Grant stood outside his truck, watching as the SUV pulled into the parking lot. He tried to keep his heart from racing, and to hold the fear and tension at bay. He knew what he had to do; he just prayed he could do it. Allison's life depended on it. He reached back, touching the energy gun sticking out of the top of the waistband of his pants. He had practiced earlier, pulling it, making sure it wouldn't catch. The SUV wheeled around, the headlights blinding him. He put his hands to his sides and waited.

The vehicle came to a stop. The driver's side door swung open, and the biggest man he'd ever seen emerged, a man he recognized from his research on his father. This was Crossbones. Crossbones walked forward, dragging Allison out of the SUV. She fell to the blacktop, and Bones yanked her to her feet, making her cry out. Grant started towards her, but Crossbones shot him a look.

"Don't do it, hero."

To drive home his point, Crossbones put a massive hand around Allison's neck. Grant stopped, raising his hands. Bones dragged Allison to the front of the SUV. Taking a pair of handcuffs from his belt, he cuffed her free hand to the grill, and then turned to Grant. They stood opposite of one another like gunfighters, the wind blowing pine needles and small branches across the asphalt like tumbleweeds, completing the scene. Lightning forked the sky behind Grant, heralding a coming storm. Bones nodded.

"You look like your daddy, standing there all noble. He died that way, you know. Being noble doesn't pay." He tossed over the harness. It landed at Grant's feet. "Put it on."

Grant let the harness lay on the ground, never taking his eyes off Bones.

"Let her go first."

Even over the wind, Grant heard the big man sigh. "I thought we had an understanding. That bracelet Allie's wearing runs on two quantum power cells. Packs a hell of a charge. I hit this button," he said, showing the controller in his hand, "she goes bye-bye. You put the harness on, I let her go. Simple as that."

Grant shook his head. "You'll kill her no matter what I do. Let her go now, or it's no deal."

Another bolt of lightning split the sky, this one closer, the thunder following on its heels. Bones lifted his hand, his thumb on the controller.

"Damn it boy, don't test me."

Grant smiled. "I Googled you. Not that much to read. You're kind of a second-stringer, aren't you?"

"Why don't you ask your daddy? Oh, that's right...he's not around." Bones laughed. "There isn't much written about me because I don't leave much behind. You think I'm some wanker like the Shocker? Some corny 'super villain' playing dress up? I'm a killer elite, boy. Now, put that harness on...or the girl dies."

The rain came, falling at a hard slant on the driving wind. Grant said a silent prayer. In a blur of motion, he reached behind him and pulled the energy gun, pointing it at Bones. Bones laughed.

"What, you think I don't have a field dampener? Go ahead, kid, fire."

Grant glared at him as lightning flickered in the dark sky. "It's not for you. It's for me."

He punched the control pad, and the weapon emitted a low, pulsing hum. "It's on overload. I figure you must need me alive, huh? So let her go, or I blow myself to bits!"

Bones snarled as he entered a command on his controller. "You want to play? I set the timer for three minutes—the girl dies whether you're here, or not!" He stuffed the controller in his pocket. "You want to save her? Come get it."

Grant threw the gun aside, and charged Bones, crashing into him. Bones slid back several feet, and then halted the charge, pushing back on Grant. They grappled for a moment, muscles straining, locked in standoff. Grant freed a hand, reaching for Bones' pocket. Bones slammed his knee into Grants stomach, doubling him over, and then twisted aside, grabbing Grant by the back of the neck, throwing him forward. Grant sprawled face down on the wet asphalt, sliding a dozen feet. Off to the side where he'd thrown his gun, an explosion flashed in the dark, the noise rising above the storm.

"I'll be damned," Bones said. "You were really going to do it." He laughed, the sound deep, and mocking. "I told you, being noble doesn't pay. Get up, boy...school's in session."

Grant scrambled to his feet, his face bleeding. Wiping the grit and blood away, he ran at Bones, throwing a punch that would shatter a cinderblock wall. Bones sidestepped the blow and whipped an elbow strike that caught Grant's cheek with a resounding crack, filling his vision with white pain as he staggered back.

"You're fast, boy," Bones said, "but you telegraph your punches. Your daddy had power _and _skill, but you're a one trick pony, aren't you?"

Grant moved forward, swinging lefts and rights. Bones blocked several, avoiding others, but one punch landed squarely on his jaw, rocking his head back. Grant moved in, but Bones was faster, firing fast, precise punches that battered his face, driving him back. As Grant staggered, Bones chuckled.

"You may kill it against dirtbag tweakers, but this is the big time, boy. Come on, show me what else you got. Little Allie's down to ninety seconds."

Grant howled, and charged forward, marshaling all his speed. He crashed into the big man, again pushing him back, raining punches into his sides. Bones slammed his fists down in hammer blows onto his shoulders, driving him down while bringing a knee into his chin with a thunderous collision. Grant grayed out, falling to the ground. He struggled to his knees. As the storm raged, he reached up with a trembling hand, grabbing the big man's belt, slowly pulling himself to his feet. Bones spun him around, locking his massive arms around his neck, squeezing his airways, cutting off his carotid arteries. Grant struggled, his vision going dim, as the big man laughed.

"You were right, boy, I do need you alive. When you wake up, you'll be safely locked away. Allie's time's almost up."

A low hum sounded, quiet at first, then growing in intensity and volume, loud even against the storm. The cocksure arrogance left Bones' voice.

"What the hell is that?"

"Check...your...belt...asshole," Grant gasped.

Bones let Grant go and looked down. A cartridge from an energy pistol was jammed into one of his belt compartments, vibrating as it emitted a soft glow; the pack was on overload, growing fiercely hot. "Jesus," he shouted, ripping out the smoking cartridge. Grant covered his head and shouted out.

"Allison, get down!"

Bones tossed the cartridge away, but it exploded in midair, less than a dozen feet away. The blast slammed him against the SUV, pushing the vehicle back, blowing out the side windows. Bones collapsed in a heap. Grant crawled to him, his ears ringing, and frantically rifled his pockets, but the controller wasn't there. It must have fallen out in the fight. Grant staggered to his feet and raced to Allison's side. She was crouched on the ground, shaken, but uninjured. The SUV had shielded her from the worst of the blast. Grant pulled her up, gripping the metal bracelet, working his fingers under the tight seal it made against her arm. The green LED light on the device turned yellow and began to blink.

"Hurry, Grant," she pleaded.

Grant worked three fingers from each hand underneath the metal band, only able to fit the tips of his fingers into the gap. Gritting his teeth, he pulled, the muscles of his arms and neck quivering. The bracelet held. He doubled his effort, his face contorted in strain as he pulled. A small tone emitted from the bracelet, and the LED light blinked faster and faster.

"Grant," Allison cried, fear trembling her voice. "Please hurry!"

With a primal scream, Grant pulled...and the metal band cracked open. It fell to the ground just as the light flashed red. An electric charge coursed through the empty bracelet, making the air sizzle. Grant slumped against the hood of the SUV, and Allison threw an arm around him, pressing kisses to his face, wet in the falling rain. He held her tight.

"Oh, Grant," she said, her lips warm against his ear, as warm as her tears. "I thought he would kill you…"

"I'm okay. _We're _okay," he said, holding her close. He remembered she was still chained to the grill. Letting go reluctantly, he grabbed hold of the small length of chain on the handcuffs and pulled. The metal grill gave easily, the cuff pulling loose, and she was free. Allison looked up at him, relieved, but the expression in her eyes quickly turned to terror.

"Grant! Look out!"

He spun around, just as Crossbones smashed into him. There was no technique in the man's attack now, only rage, and brute power. They flew back, narrowly missing Allison. Landing a dozen feet away from the vehicles, they jumped to their feet. Bones pummeled Grant with punches that would dent a steel beam. Grant fought back, battering the big man with all the power he could muster. One punch caught him flush on the chin, rocking him back, and Grant saw his opening. He lashed out, driving his foot into the giant's crotch. Bones staggered back, glaring at Grant. His mask had been shredded by the explosion, revealing eyes that blazed with fury.

"You little bastard! Screw Viper! I'm going to take your scalp, boy!"

He pulled an enormous knife from a scabbard at his hip, the blade flashing in the dark night air. Bones' rage turned cold, and his voice filled with mocking humor.

"Your daddy cashed in his chips before I could nail him. Guess I'll have to settle for you. And after I gut you, I'll get me a taste of that Oregon honey."

Grant crouched in a defensive posture, his face set and grim...and then a hard smile creased his tightly drawn lips. He stepped backwards. Bones readied to lunge at him when a sound from his left made him turn.

"Oh, shit."

Bones dropped his knife and pulled his arms in. Allison was at the wheel of the pickup, barreling straight at him. The truck plowed into Bones, smashing him clear across the parking lot. His body tumbled into the tall weeds. Allison slammed on the breaks, the truck skidding to a stop, spinning on the wet asphalt. Tears streamed down her face as she rolled down the window.

"I hope you're dead!" she shouted. "I hope you're dead!"

Grant raced over to the truck, and Allison slid across the bench seat. Grant opened the door to get in, but stopped, and looked down, searching the ground.

"Grant, what are you doing?" Terror filled her eyes again, and she cried out. "Oh, God, he's coming!"

Grant looked out to the darkness. Barely illuminated by the headlights, the hulking figure of Crossbones was raising up, slowly, from the weeds. Grant ran to the SUV, scooping up the knife that Crossbones had dropped, and plunged it into the tire. Gunshots rang out, pinging off the blacktop, striking sparks off the SUV. Grant ran to the truck and dove in through the opened door.

"Get down," he shouted, throwing the truck into gear. Bullets impacted the truck, one shattering the rear window. He pushed Allison down as he jammed his foot to the gas pedal. The truck roared, its tires spinning before they gripped the rain drenched blacktop. The Ford rocketed out of the rest stop. Two final shots struck, one tearing into the driver's side door, the other smashing the side view mirror. As the figure of Crossbones dwindled in the distance, lost in the driving rain, Grant steered the truck onto the highway, and sped off into the night.


	9. Chapter 9 Black Magic Woman

.

**Chapter 9**

**Black Magic Woman**

Ohio, Interstate 70

Allison kept looking over her shoulder as the truck sped down the highway. With the spider web of cracks crazing the surface of the rear windshield, it was difficult to see, but she squinted her eyes and peered out into the darkness. "I don't see him," she said, "but he could be driving without headlights. Can't you go faster, Grant?"

"I'm way over the speed limit already," Grant said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. "Look, he couldn't drive without headlights in this rain, in the pitch dark. We're safe, sweetie, trust me."

"You don't know him. He...he probably has night vision glasses."

"Probably does. But he can't be moving too well after you plowed into him, and he can't go anywhere until he changes the flat tire I gave him. We're safe."

Allison relaxed a little at that information, but spun around as she felt the brakes being applied. "Grant, you're slowing down! Why—"

"There's a state trooper ahead. Our rear windshield's shot out, if he see it, he'll pull us over."

"But that's good! We'll be safe!"

"No, Allison, we won't."

They drove in silence, Grant keeping the truck just below the speed limit. His hands gripped the wheel, white knuckled as they neared the trooper. There were no other vehicles on the road, no traffic to hide in. The trooper seemed to look at them as they passed, his face a blur in the heavy rain. Grant checked the rearview mirror, letting out a shaky breath as the trooper did not follow them.

"I don't understand," Allison said, her face crimped in frustration. "We're being chased by a killer, why don't we go to the police?"

"This truck isn't mine. Kenny lent it to me, but I don't have any papers for it. And it's riddled with bullet holes. The cops would take us in, hold me for questioning."

"But we could explain it. It would take time, but eventually we'd work it out. We'd be safe."

"Would we? Bones was able to track me down in the middle of the country, he'd be able to do it even faster if I was in custody, my name in police reports. A few state troopers wouldn't stop him."

Allison grew quiet, thinking. "No," she eventually said, her voice quiet. "They wouldn't. He...he killed people when I was with him. Those boys at the youth hostel."

Grant turned to her. "What? The hostel in Topeka?"

Allison nodded. She hesitated a moment before finding her words. "Grant...he killed Mister Putnam."

Grants face went white. The kind, fussy old man, always quick to smile at the people coming into his hardware shop. Grant had known him his whole life. The realization hit him like a physical blow. "He killed them because of me," he said, his voice barely audible over the swish-bump of the wiper blades. He turned and looked at Allison. "Everything that's happened is because of me."

"It's not your fault," Allison said, her voice tender. "_He _did it, Grant, not you." She reached out, putting her hand on his arm. In the dim lighting of the dashboard, she noticed the blood on his shirt, drenching his left side. "Oh my God, Grant, you're bleeding! You've been shot!"

"It's okay, it's already healing." He took his right hand from the steering wheel and picked up something from his lap, showing it to Allison, a spent bullet shell. "It came out a minute ago. My body just pushed it out. The bleeding's almost stopped."

She stared at him, confusion and fear playing across her face. "I don't understand any of this. What's happening to you, Grant? Your strength, the way you fought Bones, healing from bullet wounds...how is it possible?"

Grant sighed. "I'll tell you everything. Let's get off the highway first. I've put about fifty miles between us and Bones, I think we'll be alright."

Wheeling the truck to the right-hand lane, Grant took the next exit, and pulled off the highway. Driving down the rural country road, he turned on to a small, more remote county road, and then turned onto a gravel lane that led to a deserted stretch of woods. Parking the truck, he turned to Allison, and told her the story.

**. . .**

Allison sat in silence after Grant had finished. It took her a moment to find her words.

"Your father was Captain America. Wow. That's mind blowing. Your mom, okay, that I get. It's not that surprising that she was a SHIELD agent. She's always been kind of scary, "

"Hey, my mom's not scary." Allison stared at him. Grant laughed, quietly. "Okay. She's a little scary."

"I don't mean it in a bad way. She's just...intense. But your father being Captain America. I mean, that's incredible. I don't think I'd could believe it if I hadn't seen the things you can do…" Allison eyes flashed with concern. "Wait, how is your shoulder? You've been shot, we should get you to a hospital."

Grant lifted his arm, rotating his shoulder. "It's mostly healed. But I want to hear about you, Allison. How long did Bones have you prisoner?"

"Ten days."

"God, I'm sorry. If I'd known, I would come for you." A pained look crossed Grant's face. "Did he...I mean, he didn't...hurt you?"

The truck grew quiet. Allison met Grant's faltering stare, her voice growing small as she answered. "No, he didn't hurt me. Not...that way."

"I didn't know how to ask. Maybe I shouldn't have asked." Grant slumped over the steering wheel, running a hand through his hair. "He hurt you bad enough just by taking you. It all happened because of me. It would be better for you if you never knew me."

Allison laid her hand on his. "I wouldn't want to live in a world where I didn't know you. I love you, Grant. When Bones dragged me out of that truck, and I saw you standing there, I was so afraid. Afraid of what he would do to you, afraid I'd never get to hold you again..."

"But we made it, Allison. You're safe now, and I'll never let him touch you again. I swear it."

They looked at each other, their faces dimly lit by the dashboard lights. As the rain drummed out a steady beat on the truck's roof, their hearts seemed to join, beating in synchronized rhythm. She moved towards him as he leaned in, and their lips met. All of the emotion of the night broke in her, the pent-up strain of the past several days. Tears streamed down her face, making both of their cheeks wet. Grant ran his hands through her hair, dark from the rain, and pulled her close, pressing kisses to her mouth, her ears, her neck. As the windows fogged, Allison pulled back. She looked up at Grant, and spoke, her breath catching in her throat.

"If we go any farther...I won't want to stop. Can we maybe just...slow down? Maybe just hold each other? I'm so tired, and scared, and..."

"Hey, it's all right," Grant said, pulling away, his body reluctant to break contact. "I don't want to pressure you into something you don't want to do."

She stared deeply into his eyes. "But I _do_ want it, Grant. I love you...I just want our first time to be right. Not in some cold pickup truck, when we're both tired and scared. Well, at least not when _I'm_ tired and scared. I don't suppose it's the same for you, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean with your mom and dad, with this power you have," she said, running her hand over his arm, caressing his shoulder. There was no longer any sign of the bullet hole. "What does it feel like, being so strong and brave?"

Grant sighed. He shut off the engine, making the dashboard lights blink off. The storm was spent, the rain dwindling. As the last of the dark clouds parted, the cab began to fill with soft moonlight. Grant took Allison's hand, and spoke.

"I'm still me, Allison. I know I have this crazy body now, I know I have this strength...but I was scared fighting Bones. I've watched hundreds of videos of my father fighting super villains, charging into battle against Nazis. I don't know if I could do things like. He was a hero...he was _the_ hero, the greatest ever. My mom, she's a secret agent. You should have seen her when those creeps attacked our house. She was incredible. I did the best I could, but...I wish I didn't have this power. If I didn't, then none of this would be happening. You and I would be back home, safe. Believe me, I'm no hero."

Allison looked at him, her face seeming lit from within, by love. "That's not how it looked when you were fighting Bones. Okay, maybe you _were _scared, who wouldn't be, facing a monster like him? But you did it, you saved me. It doesn't matter if you wear a costume...you're _my _hero."

Grant took her hand and pressed a kiss into her soft palm. "I love you."

"I love you, too" she replied, snuggling against his chest.

Reaching behind him, Grant pulled out a blanket that was stored behind the seat and threw it over them. Seconds later, Allison was fast asleep. Sleep evaded Grant. He'd tried to hide his worry from Allison; she had been through too much as it was, she needed to feel safe, needed to rest, but the worry came on him now, in a rush. Careful not to wake her, Grant positioned the truck's mirrors so that he could see the lane behind them. Bones shouldn't be able to find them, not with all the turns he'd taken to get to this deserted country road...but he would be on their trail, all the same. Bones would never stop, he knew that. Allison was still in danger. It wasn't just Bones he had to worry about—it was the person behind _Bones_, the one pulling the strings. His mother had tried to warn him, back in another lifetime. He could almost hear her words now, echoing in his thoughts.

_There are dangers that most people know nothing about, bad people with bad intent, just waiting for their moment to strike…_

He had been too sheltered, too naïve to understand how true those words really were. With worry weighing heavily on him, Grant sat holding his girl tight, until sleep finally closed his eyes, taking him to badly needed rest.

* * *

Bones stared down the sight of his Beretta M9, tracking the Ford pickup as it peeled out of the roadside rest, trying to line up a last shot...but between the storm, and his shaky grip, the shot went wide, missing the mark. The truck roared out of sight. Bones snarled and lowered his gun. He looked down at his left arm. Fracture. Holstering his gun, he walked over to his SUV. The wind was already dying down, the storm blowing itself out, even as the rain continued to fall in buckets. He opened the passenger side door and grabbed a small box from the center compartment. He didn't want to do this, but he didn't have any options. Opening the box, he took out a syringe. He scanned for a particular vial. Finding it, he filled the needle, but hesitated. He bought only the best Mutant growth hormone, the pure stuff, but it was still risky. The damned shit was addictive, and even the best stuff could be unstable. On top of that, it would clash with the steroids and other enhancements he was already on...but if he didn't use it, he'd be dealing with this busted arm for weeks.

"Screw it," he muttered, stabbing his injured arm with the needle. The MGH burned like fire as it coursed through his bloodstream, and he gritted his teeth. The stuff came from a healer, not a top-tier mutant like Creed, or Wolverine, that stuff was rarer than Unicorn tears, but a healer, nonetheless. Low-grade healer junk was nowhere near what Wolverine had, or even what the Super Soldier Serum provides, but it would fix his broken bone by the morning. The stuff was working, he could feel it, but it was making him woozy, and sick to his stomach. Bending over, he vomited, then shook his head. He didn't have time to be sick. He looked down at the flat tire, with the knife jutting from it. Goddamned kid got him good. He wouldn't underestimate him again. Bones pulled the blade free, sheathing it at his side. The kid thought he'd gotten away, but he was in for a rude surprise.

He took out his communicator and activated the tracking beacon he'd slipped into Allison's pocket. His smile dimmed immediately; the signal was flashing red, indicating the tracker was only six feet away. He slowly walked out, following the signal. Three feet. Two feet. Something crunched under his boot, and he knelt to look. It was the tracer; it must have fallen out of the girl's pocket. Shit, this just wasn't his night. He shut the tracer program off and put a call through to headquarters. The line answered. He didn't waste time, speaking before the Com officer could get a word out.

"Put me through to Viper."

"The Commander is not available. Please follow protocol and report your status."

"Fuck you, that's my status! I said put me through!"

"Agent Rumlow, Madam Viper is not in the compound."

"Where is she?"

"I cannot release that information. I _can_ relay a text message if the matter is urgent. What is your status?"

Bones stood in the rain, thinking. Viper usually kept him in the loop when she was working on something outside of the compound. He didn't like the idea of not being there to watch her back. After a heartbeat of silence, he answered the voice on the other end of the line.

"I've lost the kid. But I'll find him again." He looked at the SUV; flat tire, windows blown out. "I need a new ride."

There was a moment of quiet over the line, the only sound the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. The voice returned.

"A new vehicle will be delivered to your location within the next two hours."

"Good. I'll be catching some Z's. Tell them to call before they show up, if they don't want to get their heads blown off."

"They'll call. We have a covert team working in Chicago, agent Rumlow. Perhaps it would be best if they joined you on this mission?"

"I love it when assholes who sit behind desks tell me my job," Bones growled. "Just get the message to Viper, and get that truck here, pronto."

He cut the connection and pocketed the communicator. He reached into a compartment on his belt, and pulled out three Vicodin pain pills, swallowing them. The pills were bitter. He got into the SUV, the broken glass crunching as he sat. He pulled a flask from the glove compartment and took a snort. MGH, the pills, the booze; he'd be flying high soon. That was alright; he'd be fine in the morning. With a small chuckle, he took out his communicator again, and brought up a photo. He stared at the man on the screen, all handsome and noble.

"I met your boy tonight, Cappy. Real chip off the old block. I'm going to find him, and take him to Viper, and after she's had her fun with him...I'm going to kill him. Just thought you'd want to know."

He slipped the phone back into his pocket. His eyes grew heavy. As sleep drifted over him, his thoughts turned to Viper, wondering what she was working on. The woman was ambitious. She had a hunger in her that scared him a little. He didn't think anything would ever satisfy that hunger, not even the world itself.

* * *

Eastern Carpathian Mountains

Viper stood on the rocky ledge, bundled in layers of winter clothing, as the wind blasted her like a scourge. Behind polarized goggles, she closed her eyes and attempted to center her thoughts. The penetrating cold made even that simple task difficult. She could be waiting in her aircraft, sheltered from the frigid air, warm, comfortable...but to do that would be to show weakness. She had come to this meeting with only her pilot, not bringing a contingent of guards. Guards would be useless at such a meeting, and again, to bring them would be a sign of weakness. She could not afford to show weakness now. The potion she had taken earlier would soon activate, giving her ample warmth...until then, she would brave the cold.

From the pocket of her heavy winter parka, her communicator began to vibrate. She had left strict orders; no message was to be relayed unless it was of critical importance. Taking out the communicator, she checked the screen: Crossbones had lost the boy. A small wave of anger rippled through her. This was a complication at best, frustrating, but hardly a critical matter. She would have to instruct her head of communications on the difference between the two when she returned to base.

Slipping the communicator back into her pocket, Viper looked about her. It was a desolate place, a landscape of jagged, windswept mountains that stretched to the horizon, and cloud-choked skies of gray that looked down on an endless expanse of nothing. She was not made for such places as this. Her blood required warmth; her skin needed the sun's loving touch. It made her wonder what kind of person could thrive in such a place...but then, she knew the answer to that question. Pulling her coat tight, she stood and waited for his arrival.

Minutes later, a ship appeared on the horizon, a dot that quickly grew, moving at an astonishing speed. Slightly smaller than a mid-sized commercial jetliner, the ship was like no other aircraft she knew. Its wings were swept back and angled in a manner that seemed to defy aerodynamics. It resembled a falcon, poised to strike its prey. Silver, green and gold, it bore the colors of the nation it served, and of the man who held that nation within his iron fist. The ship was slowing for its final approach. There was ample space for it to land next to her craft, as the entire mountaintop had been sheared off to create a landing strip, but it did not land. Instead, the ship hovered a dozen feet above the stony surface. There was no detectable hum of engines, no mechanical sounds. A ramp extended, the door opened, and the figure of a man emerged, his iron boots ringing as he descended the metal steps. Viper removed her goggles, a smile creasing her lips. Her senses told her this was no robotic doppelganger, but the man himself. She nodded, bowing slightly.

"Lord Doom. This is a meeting I have long desired."

The metal clad figure stood before her, his cloak rippling in the wind. From the dark depths of his iron mask, hidden eyes scrutinized her. He spoke, his voice deep and resonant, bearing the trace of electronic amplification.

"Indeed? Given who your master was, I find that surprising."

Viper dipped her head, submissive. Silently, she directed a thought at his subconscious mind. _Desire._ She looked at him, her green eyes penetrating.

"My past association with Johan Schmidt troubles you? I assure you—"

"There is little that troubles me, woman. During the time he walked the earth, the Red Skull was one of those things. And you served him."

"I also attempted to slay him."

"And died in the process. Or so I have heard." Doom's English was impeccable, colored by a slight Slavic accent. He looked away, his eyes scanning the vast emptiness of the far borders of his nation. Slowly, he turned to face her once again. "Am I to believe that an act of treachery against your master is proof of your trustworthiness?"

Viper's emerald eyes narrowed. "You've twice called Schmidt my master. I assure you...no man is my master. Like yourself, I chart my own destiny." Her stony gaze softened, and a sensuous smile came to her lips. "As to my trustworthiness, given a chance, I am certain I can convince you."

Doom laughed. "Undoubtedly. Any man who gives you a chance is already halfway to losing his soul. My armor has isolated the chemical compound you emit and filtered it out. As to your crude telepathy, do you really think me so weak?"

"No. You are a mountain, Lord Doom, and I am a fox. The mountain stands by virtue of its strength. The fox must use what skills it has."

Doom strode forward. "Enough pleasantries. Tell me true, woman. Did you really pass through the veil of death, and return?"

"Yes."

Doom grew quiet. "And what did you see?"

Her clear emerald eyes met his hard, iron gaze. "Nothing. Neither heaven, nor hell. I cannot give you the answers you seek, but perhaps this can…"

Viper reached into the satchel at her side, and took out a small object, wrapped in a cloth. She offered it to Doom, and he took it, slowly undoing the cloth. He stopped, staring at the item in his hand for several long seconds of silence. Viper broke the quiet.

"The chalice of Agamotto. As promised, I've delivered you a mighty gift."

Doom looked at her. "My sensors confirm it is four thousand years old. The crystal gems, the spells inscribed in gold...it is genuine. How can this be? The chalice has been in the possession of Steven Strange for many years. No picklock could ever breach his Sanctum."

"No...but the great Agamotto created _two_ chalices."

"Yes," Doom said. "Strange has the first. The second was lost to time."

Viper smiled. "Things lost can be found."

"What other treasures have you plundered from the Skull's storehouse?"

"A few items. And rest assured, no picklock can breach _my_ sanctum. But this, I give to you," she said, sweeping her hand to indicate the chalice. "In exchange for the technology we discussed."

Doom stood, deep in thought, his gaze locked on the chalice. He finally looked away. Reaching to the pouch at his side, he took out a small device, handing it to Viper. "I lend this to you for one month. Any attempt to examine the mechanism or the software will disable the device. The secret of my advanced holography stays with me."

"Agreed."

"This is hardly an equal trade," Doom said, holding up the chalice. "Why agree to it?"

"For two reasons. First, I am no sorceress. The chalice is beyond my ability to command. As to its esoteric nature...it is said it grants its user the ability to peer into the afterlife. I have no wish to turn my eye there. The second reason I make this trade is to earn your favor."

Viper stepped closer. The cold radiating from the armored tyrant penetrated deeper than the wind-whipped air. She spoke, her voice like spun silk.

"It is whispered that no human has touched your flesh in more than two decades. Is this true, Lord Doom?"

"Woman...tread carefully. I have executed people for less than this."

Viper smiled. "Nevertheless, I ask, is it true? The mountain, for all its strength and power, is cold, and lonely…but the flesh is transcendent. You seek answers in that chalice. I hope you find them, but take the word of one who has died, and come back to tell the tale...there are other answers, ones only the flesh provides."

Viper opened her coat, and undid her shirt, pulling back the cloth to reveal the beginning slope of her breasts. Lines crisscrossed her naked flesh. Despite the bitter cold, she did not shiver; indeed, she seemed to glow with heat.

"As you see, my body, too, is scared. And yet, it is supple, and gifted. I would share it with you."

Doom stared in silence. When he next spoke, his words came haltingly. "You think I could not find companionship, if I desired it? Or take it, of my own will?"

"Somethings cannot be taken, only given. Your genius is in science. My genius is in this…"

She reached out and took his armored gauntlet, and placed it on her cheek, her breath catching in her throat. "I feel your power. It thrills me. No one alive knows the flesh as I do, the agony and ecstasy of want. I told you no man is my master, but long have I desired to find one mighty enough to be so."

"And Schmidt? Was he not mighty enough?"

"Assuredly. But I seek a man, not a monster."

They stood in silence for several seconds, his cold metal hand pressed to her face, her breast heaving. From within Doom's gauntlet, power began to hum

"I could disintegrate you, shred you atom from atom…"

"That is within your power," Viper answered, her eyes never leaving his. "Are you not curious what is within _my_ power?"

Doom stood, motionless. A moment passed, and he pulled his hand away, slowly.

"You are greater than I realized—brazen, as am I. Timidity is for the weak. I salute you. But Doom stands alone. Always."

Viper nodded, and pulled her clothing about her, fastening her coat. A small smile was imprinted on her lips, which shone like polished Malachite. "The mountain unconquered."

Doom nodded. "The fox untamed. Tell me, the message you received, it must have been important for your people to relay it to you here. Who was this boy who escaped your assassin?"

For the first time in this meeting, Viper appeared perturbed. "You...intercepted my communiqué?"

Doom chuckled. "Your encryption is excellent. But I am Doom."

Viper stood for a moment, silently considering. She decided on truth. "I believe the boy is the son of Steven Rogers."

"Captain America, a son? Remarkable. Does the boy have the power of the serum?"

"It appears he does."

"And you wish to extract the secret from his DNA. Why then do you put an assassin on his trail?"

"I need to find him, and Crossbones is my most capable agent."

"He is also a killer, who lusts for blood," Doom said, with distaste. "Steven Rogers was a man of honor, a rare thing in this world. My family owed him a debt of honor, one I never fully paid. I would not be pleased to know his son was killed needlessly. Factor that into your decisions."

"Of course. I will take pains to spare the boys life, if at all possible. You have my word on it."

Doom nodded and handed Viper the mechanism. She took it.

"Thank you, Lord Doom. I wish you good fortune. May the chalice reveal that which you seek."

As she turned to go, Doom called out.

"A word of warning. After the fall of Hydra, there was a recalibration amongst the great powers. They guard their ranks jealousy. In your quest for power, take care that you do not run afoul of the Mandarin, or Magneto. They will crush anyone who strays too far into their field of influence."

Viper turned to face Doom. "And the mighty Lord of Latveria? Need I fear him?"

"He is merciless if betrayed...but he does not destroy things of beauty, if unprovoked."

Saying no more, Doom turned and entered his aircraft, which flew off seconds later. Viper stood and watched as the ship disappeared. She had played a dangerous game today and won. Doom had not succumbed to her—she had not been foolish enough to think he would, but a seed had been planted. Alliances are born of many things; convenience, necessity...and desire. Doom, like all men, fancies himself the captain of his own fate. Though he locks it away in a prison of iron, he is for all his power, but flesh and blood. And Viper was master of the flesh. There was no man, or woman, she could not ensnare with her mastery of the flesh. The sorcery of sex, the alchemy of passion, these were her weapons, the things that made her captain of _her _fate. Men were fools; Doom, Magneto, the Skull, all the would-be conquerors, brutes whose only thought was to beat the world into submission. Viper knew the secret: the world must be seduced. It could not be taken; it could only give itself.

Clutching the holographic projector, Viper smiled. With this device, she was one step closer to gaining the reins of power. She entered her aircraft, and seconds later was headed back to base. As she settled in for the six-hour flight, she pulled up the information Rumlow had sent to base, including the photographs of the boy. Her eyes widened at the sight; she'd expected to see a callow youth, but this was the figure of a man; tall, powerfully built, with the beautiful features of his father. Viper smiled, her moist lips glittering and green.

"What a handsome boy you are, Grant. I so look forward to meeting you."


	10. Chapter 10 Take on Me

_**A/N**_

_**Hi, Practically an Avenger (I gotta shorten that. How 'bout PA?). First, thanks so much for the reviews, please keep them coming. I'm thrilled you found me from reading my buddies CC and robbie, two of the best writers on this site. I'm going to steal their thing by addressing your comments/questions here. I'll pay them royalties or something. Here goes.**_

_**\- I definitely base my stuff on the classic**__**Marvel Universe (I don't know what number, that stuff confuses me) - but I tweak things. In my version, Crossbones kind of IS the Marvel version of Bane. I see him as 6'9", 400 pounds (think The Mountain from Game of Thrones). Likewise, my version of Cap is (oops, make that was) 6'5''. Here's my thinking: I can't have Captain America walk into an NFL huddle and be one of the shortest guys on the field. Tom Brady is 6'4". Cap has to be taller than that.**_

_**\- I tweak the healing power of the Super Soldier Serum. It's a notch below Wolverine. And Grant has a little more healing juice than his dad. So, yeah, he's very close to Wolverine level healing.**_

_**\- Your observations on the truck hitting Crossbones cracked me up. You busted me, and I cleaned it up in this chapter. As for Crossbones being a "bad shot", he actually **__**hit**__** Grant in the shoulder - at nighttime, during a storm, with a broken arm. Bad guys missing the shot is one of the million convenient plot devices stories use, like heroes surviving impossible death traps, vehicles defying the laws of physics, and so forth. I mean, come on, don't tell me you haven't read stories where bad guys miss easy shots. Just saying.**_

_**\- Quartermain. Don't worry; I won't do him wrong. And don't give up on Marcus, he's on a journey.**_

_**\- Grant and Allison. I love these two, I hope you will as well. You're right; they aren't ready for sex...yet. But they love one another, and they are committed. Being on the run from an assassin makes it hard to find the right time. On a similar note, this story is about Grant BECOMING a hero, so he can't just nail everything from the start. He'll get there.**_

_**\- Viper. She is the worst. And yet I kind of love her. She has no powers, yet in a world of superpowered titans, she's the deadliest woman in the world. Respect.**_

_**Thanks for reading and reviewing!**_

* * *

**Chapter 10**

**Take on Me**

Ohio

Allison awoke with a start, her breath catching in her throat. She looked about, her eyes bleary from sleep and the bright sunlight. Her sight adjusted, and she took in the interior of the truck cab. For a moment of panic, she thought she was back in the SUV, a prisoner again, but she quickly saw she was in Grant's truck. She looked to her side. Grant wasn't there. She peered out to the wooded country lane, her eyes scanning, as her panic returned.

"Grant? Grant!"

She opened the door and half tumbled out. Swiveling her head, she called his name again, feeling fear rise in her throat. He wasn't there. Then she heard a voice answer.

"I'll be right down."

She looked up. High in the branches of a towering maple tree, she saw Grant. He grabbed a branch and swung out, letting go. Dropping nearly fifty feet to the ground, he landed lightly at her side.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, seeing the look in her eyes. "You were sleeping so soundly, I decided not to wake you."

"Sorry I freaked," she said. "I shouldn't be such a baby."

He put his hands on her shoulders, gently. "Hey, after what you've been thorough, you have every right to freak."

He pulled her into a hug, and she could feel the gentleness of his moves, the special attention he paid to not overwhelm her with his new strength. She smiled, pressing her face into his chest. Then she looked up at him.

"Just how tall have you gotten?"

"About six four. I'm still getting used to it," he said, sheepishly. "I look in a mirror, and I think, who's that guy? Then I think, oh, yeah, it's me. Kind of weird."

"Hey, it's still you, I only have to look in your eyes to see that. Besides, I'm not complaining," she said, putting her hand on his bicep, and flashing a cheeky smile. "But what were you doing up there? I mean, were you testing your amazing tree climbing powers?"

"Very funny. I was trying to get a signal," Grant said, taking the phone from his pocket. "I couldn't get one, but I saw a town not far away. Once we get back on the road, I'll be able to get GPS and get us on our way."

She stared at him, puzzled. "I thought you told Bones that phone didn't have GPS?"

"I lied," Grant said, grinning. "You got a problem with that?"

"No." Allison stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "I guess your mom's spy skills rubbed off on you. So, where are we headed today?"

"First, we get some breakfast. I saw a little town just south of here where we can eat, and wash up. I don't suppose you have any money on you?"

"Actually, I do," she answered, pulling a twenty and a ten from her pocket. "Bones took my purse, but he didn't bother taking my spare change. It's not much, I know, but…"

"Every little bit helps. I have about five hundred dollars on me. It's going to eat the budget, but we'll have to replace this windshield, or we're sure to be pulled over."

"I need some clothes," Allison said. She lifted her arm and sniffed her armpit, making her nose wrinkle. "And some deodorant. Toothpaste wouldn't hurt, either. I hate you seeing me like this, all yucky and gross," she said, running her fingers through her long auburn hair, which was tangled and matted.

Grant tilted her face up to his and pecked a kiss to her lips. "You're beautiful. But...toothpaste couldn't hurt."

She raped her fist against his chest. "You jerk. Okay, we eat, and get some supplies. But then I need to call my folks. I have to let them know I'm alright," she said, seeing the uncertain look on Grant's face. "With all that's happened to you and your mom, Mister Putnam being murdered, me disappearing, they must be worried out of their minds."

"Sweetie, they'll want you to come home, or go to the police. That's too dangerous right now. Bones is still out there, looking for us. He probably has your folks phone bugged."

Allison's face went pale. "Do you think they're in danger? Oh God, Grant, do you think he'll go after them?"

"No, I don't think so. Look, there are limits to what he can do. He's on our trail, he wouldn't backtrack now." Grant passed his phone to Allison. "When we get to town and pick up a signal, you can text your mom, tell her you're with me, that you're safe. That'll give them some relief. Once we get to safety, you can call them."

She nodded. "Okay, you're right. How far away is this town?"

"About ten minutes. Why?"

Allison scrunched her face. "It's called nature. I don't know how it is with you big, tough superheroes, but this girl needs to pee."

Grant looked at her, quizzically, then waved his hand out, indicating the trees and fields. "I thought you were a country girl."

Allison frowned. "Okay, I have to do the other thing, too. There, are you happy? You just made your girlfriend admit she has to poop. And I'm _not_ doing that behind a tree with you standing nearby, you got me?"

Grant laughed. As they walked to the truck, he stopped to inspect the front end. He patted the roll bar fitted around the grill. The thick steel bars were dented, but intact.

"Good thing Kenny had it fixed up for off-roading. Even a tough old model like this one would have been ruined after you smashed into Crossbones. He's as big as a buffalo. Strong as one, too."

He stopped and turned to look at Allison. "I haven't thanked you yet, have I? You saved us when you rammed him, you know."

"I know it sounds horrible, but I wish I'd killed him."

"He deserved it. But you hurt him pretty bad. Between that, the storm, and the darkness, he wasn't able to pick us off. Assassins like him don't usually miss. We got lucky."

Allison put her hand on his shoulder. "We weren't that lucky. He hit you. Are you sure you're alright?"

Grant smiled and moved his arm in circles. "All better. It's pretty amazing. You know, I read up on my dad. I don't know everything about his powers, but I don't think he healed as fast as this. Maybe the serum changed when he passed it on to me, mutated or something. All I know is it sure comes in handy."

They jumped into the truck, and seconds later were rambling down the country lane, heading to the nearby town.

* * *

Manhattan, New York

Sharon and Clint stepped off the gleaming elevator and headed down the hall. Granite sconces lined the walls, holding sprays of lilacs and wildflowers. The floors were tiled with Italian marble, reflecting the soft-glowing light spilling down from the crystal fixtures mounted on the frescoed ceiling. Sharon looked around her as they walked.

"Ritzy building," she said.

"She has money, but don't let that fool you, she's no pampered princess. Trust me, coming here was the right move."

They stopped at the door, the only one on the entire floor, and Clint knocked. A second later, the door opened. Standing before them was a tall young woman, young, with long shiny brown hair. Her features were sharp, and might have been harsh if not for the inner warmth that emanated from her deep brown eyes. Those eyes lit up as she saw Clint, and a smile bloomed on her rose-colored lips. She threw her arms around his neck.

"Clint! It's been too long."

"Yeah, I've been kind of busy," he replied. He pulled back, holding the woman's shoulders as he looked her over. "You're looking great, kid."

"Hmm. I haven't been a kid for a few years, but thanks. You're looking good, too," she said, scrubbing her hand over his beard. "Scruffy, but good."

"I aim to please. I want you to meet an old friend of mine," Clint said, motioning to Sharon. "This is Sharon Carter. Sharon, this is Kate Bishop."

The woman extended her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Sharon."

"Actually, we met a while back," Sharon said, shaking hands.

"Really? I don't remember."

"I'm not surprised. You were eight at the time."

Kate smiled. "Sounds like there's a story there. Come on, let's take this inside."

Sharon followed the woman into the apartment, with Clint coming in behind them, but he nearly knocked them both aside as he barreled forward.

"Lucky!"

A shaggy haired dog bounded down the hallway, barking happily. Clint knelt and spread his arms out, as the dog jumped to greet him. The dog was half golden retriever, half mutt, and all joy. Clint hugged him, as the dog smacked wet kisses to his cheek.

"Who's a good boy?" he asked, rubbing the dog's ears. "Who's a good boy?"

"Be easy with the old fella," Kate said.

Sharon cocked an eyebrow. "Which one?"

"In this case, let's go with the dog," Kate said, laughing. "He's been having trouble with his hips."

Clint looked up, still rubbing the dog's ears. "What are you talking about? He's in the prime of life! Just like me."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Say's the archer with the gray hair."

"It's silver," he shot back, nuzzling the dog. "Don't you listen to her, boy. We're just getting started, aren't we?"

The dog answered by barking happily and thumping his tail on the hardwood floor. Kate looked at Sharon.

"This reunion might take awhile. Let's get some coffee."

Sharon followed Kate down the hallway. The apartment was spacious, and tastefully decorated, but not ostentatious. Kate's clothing was likewise; stylish, but not excessive. Sharon noted the fourth finger of her left hand, a small indent where a ring once sat. They stepped into the well-appointed kitchen, bathed in sunlight from the large windows lining the walls. There was a patio balcony which overlooked a spectacular view of the Hudson river.

"How do you take it?" Kate asked.

"Cream. No sugar. This is quite a place."

"Thank you. I don't spend a lot of time here, but I enjoy it when I do."

As Kate busied herself brewing the coffee, Sharon walked over to the glass doors, and looked out to the west, but she couldn't see the spot she was looking for. She opened the doors and walked out onto the patio, and there it was, across the broad boulevard, thirty stories below: Avengers Park. Ten acres of green grass, towering trees, and graceful flower beds. Brick lined paths meandered to the river's edge, and a small playground sat on the far right. In the center of the park was a sparkling fountain, with geysers of water spraying in high, graceful arcs, falling into pools at the basin. This marked the spot where Avengers Mansion once stood. In a place of honor in front of the fountain, stood a massive statue. The figure of a man, tall and strong, with an expression that was proud...and lonely. Crowds of people milled around it, taking pictures, children posing with arms on hips, staring heroically forward. Sunlight struck the polished marble statue, reflecting in a brilliant starburst. Sharon's eyes grew damp, as memory flooded her heart.

Kate Bishop walked up beside her, offering a cup of coffee. Sharon quickly wiped a hand across her eyes and accepted the steaming mug.

"That's one of Alicia Masters pieces," Kate said, sipping her coffee. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"I met him once. I was just a kid, obviously. Totally in over my head. But he didn't talk down to me or dismiss me. He made me feel like anything was possible. That was his real superpower, inspiring hope. I've met a lot of heroes since then, been a member of the Avengers, worked with the X-men, but I've never met anyone quite like Cap."

"No," Sharon said, quietly. "There was never anyone quite like him."

Kate stared at her. "You knew him?"

"Yeah, she knew him."

They turned and saw Clint, sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in hand. Lucky was curled up at beside him, contentedly chomping on rawhide chew toy. Clint pushed out a chair with his foot, nodding at Kate. They walked back into the kitchen and sat. Kate looked at Sharon.

"When Clint called, he said he had a favor to ask...but I get the feeling the favor is for you, isn't it?"

Sharon nodded.

"Well, you're a friend of Clint's, that's good enough for me. Tell me what I can do."

"First, let me finish that story I hinted at," Sharon said. She set her coffee down, looking into Kate's eyes. "I told you we'd met before. It was in your father's office."

A small shadow dimmed Kate's features. "Oh. My father."

"I was having a meeting with him when you and your mother stopped in. You wanted him to come to lunch with you, and he told you he couldn't get away. You were very sad and asked me if I could let your daddy go with you. I said I was sorry, but I couldn't. I gave you a piece of candy from his desk and told you you were a very sweet girl."

Kate nodded. "I remember. After we left the office, I told my mom you were the prettiest lady I ever saw. She wasn't too happy with that. She had to put up with a lot from my father. Somehow, I don't think you were another one of his dalliances. You're a little too smart, for one thing. Were you in publishing?"

"No, but publishing wasn't your father's only business, was it? He was using his warehouses to store weapons for Hydra. I informed him he was becoming a problem, and that it was my job to make problems disappear. He wisely retired from the Hydra business."

Kate sat quietly for a moment. "He never really went straight, you know."

"I know, but that's where my concern with his affairs ended. His involvement with the Kingpin wasn't a matter for SHIELD."

"I guess not. I'm not my father, Sharon, and I'm long past the point of apologizing for the things he did."

"I wouldn't expect you to. you're a friend of Clint's, and that's good enough for me. I just wanted to get everything out in the open. I know your secrets...and now I'll tell you mine."

Sharon brought up a photo on her cell phone and handed it to Kate. "This is my son, Grant."

"He's a cutie."

"Naturally, I think so. He's on the run, and he's being pursued by dangerous people. I need help finding him."

Kate looked at the picture for a moment, and then handed back the phone. "Why come to me? Last I checked, SHIELD is pretty good at tracking people down."

"I left the Division years ago. And I don't trust them right now. I think the people that are after Grant have moles within SHIELD."

Kate's brow furrowed. "That's concerning. I always thought Quartermain ran a tight ship. The Avengers have liaisons with SHIELD, maybe we should sound the alarm."

"No," Sharon said. "A frontal assault is the wrong approach. The mole would pull in, disappear in the bureaucracy. SHIELD has many power centers, and lots of shadowy divisions, people with their own agendas. It's not easy for moles to infiltrate, but once they get in, they're difficult to find. I have some people checking into it, quietly."

"Alright, I suppose you know best about catching spies. But these people that are after your son, who are they? What do they want?"

"The only thing I know for sure is they're well funded, and dangerous. Bad actors. As to why they're after Grant...it's because of who his father was. You met him once. He inspired you to feel that anything was possible."

Kate stared at Sharon, her mouth hanging open. She turned and looked in the direction of the park, and then looked at Clint, her eyes full of questions. Clint nodded, answering them. Slowly, she turned back to Sharon, and spoke.

"Okay. Tell me more about these bad actors. You must have some ideas."

"Two weeks ago, a strike team came to my home, and attempted to take Grant. We fought them off, but Grant ran away that night. He thought he was endangering me. I... kept the truth from him about who his father was, he only learned about it that night. I suppose that was part of the reason he left. The strike team was trained by Taskmaster and employed by AIM."

Kate nodded. "Bad actors, alright."

"AIM is a red herring, they're strictly research. There's someone behind them. I don't know who. Yet. I'll find them, but first, I have to find Grant. He's in danger."

"I agree. Maybe the Avengers should be in on this."

Sharon shook her head. "Thor and Iron Man are great when you need to smash an alien god or stop a horde of monsters. They're not so good at finding eighteen-year-old kids who've dropped off the grid. And if possible, I'd like to keep Grant's heritage secret. The Avengers attract media attention like the Beatles and Beyonce had a baby. Throw Captain America's son into the mix, and the spotlight would be blinding."

The room grew quiet. Kate sipped her coffee, then set it down. The silence held a moment longer.

"Well, Katie," Clint said. "What do you think?"

Kate smiled. "I think we're about to get very busy. I agree with Sharon. Thor and Iron Man aren't what we need. It takes a teenager to find a teenager. Luckily, I know a few who are tailor-made for the job."

Kate took out her cellphone and placed a call.

* * *

Ohio

Grant and Allison found a small department store on the outskirts of town, and pulled in. After purchasing clothing and toiletries, they used the store's restroom to wash up and change, an act that greatly improved both of their dispositions. They slipped out of the store, under the suspicious stare of the nosy woman manning the cash register. Not far from there they spotted a junk yard. Grant bargained a decent price for a used windshield. They left the truck at the shop and walked the short distance into the village of Somerset. The sunshine and fresh air quickly dried Allison's damp hair. She linked her arm around Grant's and sighed.

"Clean hair, fresh undies, and a handsome boy. I'm very happy."

"I'm glad."

"Pretty town," she said, looking at the shops as they walked the cobblestone sidewalk. There was a statue in the town square, and Allison stopped to read.

"General Philip Sheridan."

"He was a civil war general," Grant said.

"Yes," Allison said, throwing a smirk his way. "The horse and the old-timey army outfit tipped me off. Now if you don't want any more sass, I suggest you feed me. I'm starving."

A small diner sat on the corner of the square, and they made their way there. As they neared the door, a clattering sound came from behind them, a loud clop-clopping, followed by the neighing of horses. They turned, seeing a horse drawn carriage, holding two bearded men and a boy, and towing a cart filled with crates and baskets.

"Ooh, Amish farmers," Allison whispered.

"Yes, the beards and the old-timey outfits tipped me off," Grant said, smiling snarkily as he opened the door. "But we shouldn't stare."

They stepped inside the small eatery. The only other diners were two teenage girls, who giggled softly as they looked at Grant, whispering to one another. Allison frowned, and tightened her grip on Grant's arm. A sign read "Seat Yourself", so they found a spot by the window—Allison putting as much distance between them and the girls as possible. As they opened the menus, a middle-aged waitress came to the table, looking a little frumpy, but with a friendly smile.

"Welcome to the Little Phil," she said, holding her order pad. "What can I get you?"

"I'll take the number one," Grant said. "Can I have a double stack of pancakes with that?"

The waitress's eyes widened. "That's a whole lotta pancakes, but you want 'em, you got 'em. What about you, hon?"

"I'll have the same, only one stack."

The woman chuckled and went off to place the order. The girls at the far table continued to sneak glances at Grant, making whispered laughter behind their raised menus. Allison looked at Grant, her lips pursed angrily.

"You have fans, apparently. I ought to go over there and tell them to keep their eyes to themselves."

"Salty," Grant said, chuckling.

"Well it's just so gross."

"Now you know I felt back home. Every guy in town wanted to go out with you."

"Oh, that's so not true."

"Allison! You're the hottest girl in school. You're also the smartest, the best athlete, you volunteer at the animal shelter. If you weren't so nice, it would be kind of sickening how awesome you are."

She grinned at him. "Says Captain America's son."

"Hey," he said, putting her hand on hers, his expression serious. "We can't talk about that in public."

"Sorry," Allison said, scrunching her face apologetically.

"It's alright, we just have to be discrete. Why don't you make that text to your mom? Take your time, you'll find the right words."

As she worked on the text, Grant watched the Amish men outside, unloading their crates of produce. A group of boys was walking down the sidewalk, straight towards them. Two of them were big guys, letterman jackets. Football players, laughing loudly, taking up as much of the sidewalk as their wide bodies could fill. The biggest guy bumped one of the farmers, knocking him down. His crate smashed on the sidewalk, spilling out wheels of cheese and fresh vegetables.

"Watch where you're going," the boy said, laughing as he stepped on one of the wheels of cheese, squashing it. Grant tensed to get up, but the waitress came, delivering their food. She hurried to the door and poked her head out.

"Jimmy Martin! You leave those folks alone! I'll tell your mom about this if you don't get!"

The kid laughed, and he and the others walked away. The Amish farmers quietly gathered up their produce, and the waitress came over to the table.

"That boy's a disgrace, but don't let it ruin your breakfast, folks," she said, leaving the bill. "Enjoy!"

All other matters were forgotten as Grant and Allison dug into their meals. Allison was amazed at the quantity of food Grant devoured, which he washed down with three refills of coffee. She was still working on her plate as Grant finished his enormous meal. He took his fork and pointed it at one of her sausage links.

"You going to eat that?"

"You're still hungry?" she marveled. "Help yourself, I'm full."

Grant popped the link into his mouth, chomped twice, and swallowed. "I need lots of calories these days. How's the message coming?"

"I finally came up with something that doesn't sound totally insane," she said, picking up the phone. "Hopefully, it will keep them from worrying until I can call." She was about to press send, when Grant reached out, stopping her.

"Wait, you can't send that. Bones tracked me last night by my phone signal. If we use it again, he might be able to find us."

"Even if I just text?"

"I don't know. We can't take the chance. Look, I know how anxious you are to reach your folks. We'll buy another phone, we've got enough money for that, but we can't use this one anymore," he said, taking the back off the phone, and popping out the battery.

"Okay," Allison said, glumly. "But we have to do it soon. This is really bothering me, Grant. I have to let mom and dad know I'm alright."

"I understand. Believe me, I felt the same about my mom."

Grant stood up and pulled two twenties from his wallet, leaving a bigger tip than he probably should have. He looked at Allison, his eyes sympathetic. "Let's go buy that phone. Then we have to hit the road. I want to be in DC this afternoon, and it's a six-hour drive."

As Allison hurried to the bathroom, Grant noticed the girls at the other table continuing to look his way, giggling. Feeling self-conscious, he glanced out the window and saw that the boys had returned. The big one, with the bad Harry Styles haircut, was standing in front of the oldest Amish man, grinning at him with the same mocking smile that every bully has. Grant's jaw tightened; he hated bullies. The Amish man tried to step around the bully, who towered over him, but the guy blocked his way. Grant wanted to go out there, but he knew the smart thing was not to get involved. These were just some dumb kids acting up; it would blow over. Then the bully reached out, grabbing the Amish man's beard. Grant walked to the door.

"Check out this beard," the guy said in his smarmy bully voice, his friends laughing and egging him on. "Man, I'd love a kickass beard like—"

"Why don't you stop bothering this man?" Grant said, stepping onto the sidewalk. The kid let go of the beard and turned, a look of pretend confusion on his bully face.

"What did you say?"

Grant sighed. "Picking on someone who won't fight back isn't a good look."

The guy walked up to Grant. He stood a good inch taller and looked to have thirty pounds on him.

"What about you? Do you fight back?"

"When I have to. I don't want trouble. Just leave this man alone."

The bully puffed out his already barrel chest. "These people clog up traffic, their horses take dumps all over Main Street, they don't fight in our wars. My old man died fighting for this country."

"So did mine. You don't see me acting like an asshole about it."

The bully glared, red faced. One of his friends walked up, throwing his arm around the big kids' shoulder as he stared at Grant. "Jimmy's all state defensive end, and all division wrestling champ."

Grant smiled. "Does that mean his toughness transfers to you?"

"No," the bully said, elbowing his friend aside. "It means I'm going to kick your ass."

Everything seemed to switch to slow motion to Grant. He saw the bully's eyes dilate, and his nostrils flare; he watched as he jerked his beefy hands up in what he no doubt thought was a fast move. It seemed glacial to Grant. The guy jammed his hands to Grant's chest and attempted to shove, putting all his considerable weight and strength behind the act. Grant braced himself, flexing forward slightly. The bully flew backwards, crashing into his friends, where they fell to the sidewalk in a heap. With dazed disbelief in their eyes, they looked up at Grant.

"I don't want trouble," Grant said. "Why don't you guys just go."

The disbelief left the bully's eyes, replaced by anger. He'd just been embarrassed in front of his friends. He jumped to his feet and rushed at Grant. Grant stepped forward with his left arm extended, palm out. The bully collided with his outstretched hand, jarring to a stop as if he'd run into an iron post. He stumbled back, gasping for breath and clutching his chest in pain. One of his friends shouted out.

"Come on, Jimmy—kick his ass!"

Jimmy gathered himself, uncertainty showing in his movements. He looked at Grant, fear showing in his eyes as he caught his breath. Grant met him with a hard look.

"Don't do it. Just go home."

Jimmy lunged, throwing a right hook. Grant smiled, remembering how Crossbones told him he telegraphed his punches; Jimmy did that just now, dropping his shoulder, cocking his fist. Grant waited, and then whipped his right hand out, grabbing Jimmy's wrist, intercepting his punch. Jimmy cried out in pain and dropped to one knee. Grant held his wrist in a grip of iron and spoke.

"I'd tried asking you nice. Now I'm telling you. Go home."

To drive home his point, Grant spun the kid around, and kicked him in the backside, putting more power into the kick than he intended. Jimmy flew through the air, two hundred and seventy pounds of muscle tumbling a dozen feet down the sidewalk like he'd been shot out of a catapult. The rest of his gang stared at Grant, dumbfounded, and then they ran, gathering Jimmy up off the sidewalk. They took off without a backward look. Grant saw the Amish farmers staring at him, their expressions showing fear. The restaurant door opened behind him, and he turned to see Allison. She came up beside him, whispering in his ear.

"Grant, we'd better go. People are watching."

Pressed up against the restaurant window were the two girls, phones in hand, filming the scene. Grant turned his face away and took Allison's hand. They hurried down the sidewalk, as fast as they could without running, and jumped into the truck. Seconds later, they were driving down the county highway, leaving the small town in the rearview mirror.

After driving in silence for several minutes, Grant spoke.

"That was stupid. I shouldn't have gotten involved."

"I'm proud of you," she said, laying her hand on his arm. "Those creeps deserved what they got."

"I should have let it be. We're on the run from a killer, and I exposed us. Those guys weren't really going to hurt those farmers, they were just hassling them."

"And that makes it okay? You did the right thing, Grant. Captain America wouldn't turn his back on people who needed help, and neither would you. You're like him, you know. Not just your power...your heart."

Grant looked at her. "I love you. You know that?"

She smiled. "I love you, too."

Grant returned her smile and drove on. A few minutes later they saw an exit to a state highway, and Grant pulled the truck on to it. Allison turned to him with a questioning look

"Don't we need GPS?"

"We're going old school. Kenny has maps in the glove compartment, you'll have to be the navigator. Meanwhile, we're heading east, so that's in the right direction."

"We still need to get a cell phone. I _have _to message my folks."

"We'll get a phone when we stop for gas, but right now we need to make tracks. I was lucky against Bones last night, we can't count on that a second time. We need help."

"Okay, but who?"

"An old friend of my fathers," Grant said. "Sam Wilson."


	11. Chapter 11 Young Americans

.

**Charter 11**

**Young Americans**

Allison was running through the night, blindly, as fast as her legs could carry her, her heart pounding in her chest as her feet pounded on the dark grass, her lungs heaving in the cold night air. She had never run so fast in her life, not even when she won first place in the divisional track championship last year, setting a school record in the 200 meters. She ran on, faster than she ever imagined she could run…and she knew it was not fast enough.

He would catch her. She knew he would. She could almost feel his massive hands reaching out behind her, almost touching her. She could hear his mocking laughter, cruel and low, and she could almost feel his breath hot on her neck. She ran on, and still he came, closer and closer…

She awoke with a start, bolting upright until the safety belt snapped tight, holding her fast. She turned and looked, and for a moment of horror, she thought she saw Crossbones at the steering wheel, leering at her, his smile cold and pitiless…and then his image faded. It wasn't nighttime; it was broad daylight, the sunlight blinding her as it streamed through the windshield. And it was Grant at the steering wheel. He was staring at her with concern in his eyes.

"Allison? Sweetie, are you okay?"

She went to speak but had to swallow first, her throat dry as dust.

"Y…yes. How long was I asleep?"

"About two hours. Were you having a nightmare?"

"No," she lied, shaking the terror from her senses. She stretched, making her neck pop, as her back muscles slowly released their tension. "Wow, I must have been tired. Don't even remember falling asleep. Can you look for some place to stop?"

Grant hesitated. "We're only an hour or so from DC. I was hoping we could push through."

She thought, then shook her head. "Sorry. I have to pee."

"You can't hold it a while longer?"

She spun around, facing him. "No, Grant! I can't hold it! God, I'm sorry I can't be all super strong like you! I'm sorry I'm just a human girl who can't drive forever without having to go to the bathroom! If I'm such a burden, why don't you just leave me on the side of the road?"

"I'm sorry," Grant said, his voice quiet. His cheeks were red, as if her words had landed like a slap. "I…I'll find a place to stop."

He turned to face the road as he drove, and the truck cabin grew quiet, the only sound the thrumming of the tires on the asphalt. The radio was turned off, and Grant always played music when he drove. He'd kept it off for her, she realized, so she could sleep. Allison hunched in her seat, feeling ashamed, searching for something to say. Before she could find the words, Grant pulled the truck off Interstate 70, and took a road that led them to a truck stop. He stopped, letting the engine idle.

"Is this place okay? It looks clean, but if you don't like it, I'll find someplace else."

"It's fine. Grant…I'm sorry for snapping at you."

"No, it was my fault. I should have pulled over without arguing. Go ahead," he said, nodding toward the bathrooms. "I'll be right here, watching for you."

She sniffed, wanting to say something, anything. The words still wouldn't come. She grabbed her new bag, which held only a hairbrush and the few toiletries and bits of makeup she'd bought in Ohio. She thought about grabbing their new cell phone but decided to leave it with Grant. It would only show a hundred texts from her parents, frantically asking her to call home, which she couldn't do anyway. She got out of the truck and made it halfway to the bathrooms, before she turned around and walked back to the truck, stopping at the drivers' side. Grant rolled down the window, and before he could say anything, she leaned in, and kissed his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Grant. I'm just a little stressed out, and I…I…"

"It's him, isn't it?" he said, staring ahead. "Crossbones."

She dropped her head. "I'll get over it. I just need a little time."

"You shouldn't have to get over it," he said, his voice low with anger, his jaw clenched tight. "It shouldn't have happened. You, Mr. Putnam, God knows how many other people. You suffered because of me."

"It's not your fault. Bones is a monster, you're not to blame for what he did."

Grant said nothing, keeping his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He looked at her, his eyes flinty hard. "We've been running from him, hoping to stay one step ahead…but he's the one who needs to worry. If I ever see him again, I swear…I'm going to kill him."

She reached through the window and put her hand on his, feeling the tension there as he clenched his hand in anger. She was afraid he might crush the steering wheel, pull it off the column. She knew he was strong enough.

"Grant, please don't talk like that. I can't stand hearing you say such ugly things. Bones is the killer, not you. You saved me the other night. Heroes save people, they don't kill, and that's what you are to me. My hero. It…it's going to take time to get it all out of my system, being taking prisoner. But I _will _get over it, I swear. So long as you're there to help me.

Slowly, she felt Grant's hands lessen their grip on the wheel, the tension relaxing. He turned and looked at her.

"I'll always be there for you."

"I know you will," she said, smiling for the first time that afternoon. "I love you." She leaned in and pressed her mouth to his, sealing the words with a kiss. Squeezing his hand, she turned and walked to the bathroom.

The bathroom was indeed clean, and that helped her disposition. She felt a thousand percent better after going, realizing that half her problem had been an over-full bladder. She made a mental note: no more Big Gulps on road trips. After washing her hands, she took a moment to fix her hair, and put on a little make up. Being a country girl raised on a farm, it wasn't something she usually fussed with, but now she wanted to make an effort. If she looked good, she would feel good, and eventually, she would _be_ good. She meant what she said to Grant; she wouldn't allow Crossbones steal her peace of mind. With a last look in the mirror, she headed back to the truck.

Grant had a pained expression on his face as she got back in the truck. "We've got trouble," he said, handing her the phone. It was online, with a video cued up. Allison's eyes went wide as she pressed play.

"Grant, it's you! Your fight with the bullies!"

"Those girls filmed it and put it on YouTube," he said. "It's gone viral."

"Oh, I could strangle those skanky little brats! Wait," Allison said, stopping the video and putting the phone down. "Do you think Bones has seen this? When I was his prisoner, he was always on the phone, getting information. That's how he tracked you."

"I don't doubt it. He's part of the group that attacked the farm that night, and they were like something from a James Bond movie, stealth helicopters, fancy weapons, the works. Groups like that have computers with face recognition. For that matter, Bones probably has pictures of our truck, and the license plate. I bet he can tap into highway cameras and security systems. He knows the direction we're heading, so that narrows where he has to look…"

They both glanced through the side window, to the walls of the truck stop. Mounted near the roof was a security camera, pointing in their direction.

"Oh God," Allison said. "He could be minutes behind us. What do we do?"

"We stay on the move. We're only an hour from DC, we've got to get there, fast. Sam Wilson was my dad's best friend. He was a superhero, an Avenger, and now he's a Senator. If anyone can help us, he can."

"Then let's go," Allison said, fastening her belt. She leaned over and kissed Grant's cheek. With a smile, he fired up the engine and pealed out of the parking lot. Seconds later, they were back on the highway, following the road signs pointing due south, to the nation's capital.

* * *

Washington D.C.

The cavernous meeting room in the Hart Senate Office Building was populated with dark walnut paneled walls, heavy oaken desks, plush carpeting, soft golden lighting...and the unmistakable air of political power. The nine Senators, and their retinue of assistants, sat quietly, listening as the Director of National Intelligence delivered her report. Questions were asked, answers were given, in a relatively orderly manner. Routine business. After the briefing concluded, the Chairman of the committee, seated at the center table, lifted his gavel.

"That concludes today's agenda, so if there are no more questions—"

"I have more questions, Senator Frank."

The balding and overweight chairman sighed and lowered his gavel.

"The chair recognizes the senior senator from New York. Fire away, Senator Wilson."

Sam Wilson sat back, lacing his fingers together. His manner was thoughtful and composed. Lean and broad-shouldered, he looked more like an aging athlete than a politician. He glanced at his notes, and then looked up at the Director of National Intelligence.

"Director Hill, you've downgraded the Hydra threat. That concerns me."

Maria Hill straightened her navy-blue Donna Karan jacket, and smiled. "After careful analysis of the data, my department concluded that Hydra no longer represents any significant threat. The details are in my report."

"SHIELD doesn't seem to share your opinion. Director Quartermain was supposed to attend today's briefing. I wanted to hear his thoughts on the matter."

Hill laid her left hand onto her right, resting them on the table in a dignified manner. Her expression was one of careful patience, a professor lecturing a struggling student. "I believe SHIELD is showing an overabundance of caution on the matter of Hydra. As to Director Quartermain, he was detained by the unrest in Latveria. An actual emergency, Senator Wilson."

Sam Wilson smiled. "No one is suggesting Doom isn't a serious threat. But I maintain, as does the Director, that Hydra bears watching."

"We _do_ watch them, Senator. In the backwoods of West Virginia, the slums of Buenos Aires, the various white supremacist websites. Hydra has been reduced to a smattering of cranks and losers. They have no power base, no leadership structure at all. They were smashed flat eighteen years ago, as I believe you know from firsthand experience."

"Yes, I was there. I was also there the _first_ time they supposedly fell. And the second, and the third. My experience with Hydra has taught me not to trust the evidence of their supposed demise."

"I understand. But the Skull was destroyed eighteen years ago, and he was the heart and soul of Hydra, so I don't—"

"Heart and soul aren't words I would use to describe the Red Skull, madam Director."

Hill shifted in her seat. "No, I don't imagine you would. That was a poor choice of words on my part. Johann Schmidt was a monster, who haunted the world for nearly six decades, but, thanks to you, Senator Wilson, and Captain America, he's no longer a threat to humanity. The world lost a great man that day, but the Captain's sacrifice bought us a great victory, thank God."

The room grew quiet. After a moment, Sam Wilson spoke, his voice echoing a deep remembrance. "Yes, he bought us great victory. I just want to make sure it stays that way."

"As do I, Senator. We continue to monitor Hydra, of course, but we've seen no indications that the organization has reconstituted itself."

"And the crisis with Baron Strucker, eight years ago?"

"An anomaly," Hill replied. "A last, desperate gasp of a failed ideology. The Avengers dealt with Strucker rather easily, as I recall."

"Viper still hasn't been accounted for."

"There's a fifty-fifty likelihood that she's dead."

"Fifty-fifty?" The Senator wrinkled his brow. "I can't say I like those odds."

Maria Hill sighed, quietly, but loud enough to make a point. "I'm merely pointing out we've heard nothing from her in eighteen years. It's likely she died in the action that took out the Skull, but we'll continue searching for confirmation. You have an open invitation to come to my office at your convenience, Senator. I'll personally walk you through the data we have on Hydra, and Viper, and the steps we're taking to maintain national security."

Sam Wilson nodded. "I'll have my office schedule that appointment. My committee is debating a big increase in your annual budget, and I want to be sure the people's money is being wisely spent. The stakes are too important to do otherwise."

"Finally, something we both agree on," Hill replied, bringing a ripple of laugher from the room. "Polling shows the public is firmly in favor of increased funding. It's not generally smart politics to oppose national security. Just a friendly reminder."

Wilson smiled. "When I'm satisfied with your results, you'll get your money. Perhaps you could focus on the national security part, and let me worry about the politics?"

That brought more laughter from the assembled people. Hill nodded politely. "Point and match, Senator. Do you have any further questions for me?"

"If I think of any, I'll save them for our meeting. Thank you, Director Hill."

The chairman banged his gavel, ending the session. As the various Senator's and their staffs gathered their papers and began filing out of the room, Director Hill made her way over. She made a subtle motion, and her people stood back as she walked up to the conference table.

"Sam," she said, extending her hand. "That was nice work."

"Not too rough, I hope?" Sam said, shaking her hand.

Hill laughed. "I used to spar with Nick Fury. I can take it. How's Akelia? I haven't seen her in ages."

"She's good, thank you. Her work with the foundation takes up most of her time these days. You'll get to see her at the White House dinner next week. I assume you're going?"

Hill smiled wryly. "Any state dinner at the White House is an event not to miss, but when it's in honor of the king of Wakanda, it's doubly so. Your kids are well, I hope?"

Sam smiled. "Kiesha is a whirlwind, as always. We took her to her first Broadway show last month, now the only thing she can talk about is becoming an actress. Steven is doing well. Had a bump in his studies last year, but he's focused again. We're sending out college applications if you can believe it."

"It comes up fast, doesn't it?" Hill said. "If a letter of recommendation would be of help, just let me know. I mean, his father's a United States Senator, and his mother is an African Princess, but it can't hurt."

Sam chuckled lightly. Then his expression grew more serious.

"Maria, I wasn't just posturing about Hydra. It's a mistake to take the threat lightly. I've seen the reports. There's a growing body of evidence that Viper is alive and active."

Hill's friendly exterior remained, but her tone of voice grew cool as she spoke.

"Circumstantial evidence. Last year the world was nearly swept into an intergalactic conflict with the Kree empire. Between that and the continuing problems with Victor Von Doom and Magneto, we have bigger fish to fry. Let's put our cards on the table, Sam. I have the votes. If you fight me on this, you'll lose, and that's the kind of black eye that can derail a political career. You're one of a very small number of people with a legitimate shot at winning the White House in four years. Do you really want to risk the Presidency over a fight you can't win?"

Sam gathered the last of his papers, putting them in his case. He told his aide to go on ahead, and then looked at Maria Hill, his smile still there, his eyes focused, and hard.

"I learned an important lesson from Cap years ago, and I've never forgotten it. He taught me you don't fight the battles you think you can win…you fight the battles you _need_ to win. I'll have my people schedule that meeting. See you at the dinner, Maria."

Sam Wilson turned and walked away. As Maria Hill watched him go, her top aide walked up beside her.

"He's serious about this, Director Hill."

"So am I," she replied. "Have you reached out to Senator Kelly?"

"Yes. He's ready to block the funds for the construction project in Harlem. Wilson will play ball once we put the pressure on."

"Maybe," Hill said, watching the Senator walk toward the exit door of the conference room. "You should take a picture, Douglas. A politician with ethics. That's slightly rarer than a unicorn sighting. I'm going to regret breaking him, if it comes to it."

* * *

Chicago

Marcus threaded his Jaguar F-Type Coupe through the heavy traffic on Lake Shore Drive. His phone rang, coming in over the car's sound system. Marcus spoke.

"Pop. You got something for me?"

"Yes," Fury answered. "The asset is waiting for you at the Shell station at the end of the drive, the one on your right. You should be coming up on it anytime now. He'll be looking for your car."

"Confirmation code?"

"You'll ask him the time. He'll reply, 'my watch is in the shop'. Text me after the mission. Use your personal phone. Remember, official channels are—"

"Compromised, I know. This isn't my first day on the job."

"Sorry."

"The asset," Marcus said, "he's prepped? Because I still don't know how the hell I'm supposed to get him inside."

"Trust me, he can get the job done."

"And you really can't tell me how?"

"I could…but it's more fun this way."

"You're a riot, Pop. There's the gas station, I'll talk to you later. Assuming this thing doesn't blow up in our faces and we all get thrown in prison."

Marcus cut the connection and wheeled into the station, which was mildly busy. Standing outside the door to the shop, eating a candy bar, was a Caucasian man in jeans and a tee-shirt, He had on a Chicago Bulls cap, and a backpack slung over his shoulder. Judging by the gray showing in his brown hair, he was middle aged, though he was fit. Nothing about him said 'spook'. Marcus wasn't sure if this was the asset, but the man walked up to the car, smiling. Marcus powered his window down, and the guy took a knee, looking the car over.

"Wow, nice car. You must be Marcus, huh?"

Definitely not a spook. "That depends," Marcus said. "Do you have the time?"

"Oh, yeah, right. I forgot," the guy said. He dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. "_My watch is in the shop_. Did I say it right?"

"Get in," Marcus said. The guy complied, and Marcus pressed the accelerator, wheeling the car back on to the roadway. He looked at the man, dubiously.

"We'll be there in less than ten minutes in case you need to do any prep work."

"Nope, I'm good," the man said, finishing his candy bar.

"No equipment to set up?"

"Got it all ready," he answered, patting his backpack. "I was afraid I'd mess up that password thing up, thanks for the assist. I'm Scott, by the way," he said, offering his hand. Marcus took it.

"Why don't we leave the first names aside?"

"Ah, spy stuff, got you," Scott said, looking the interior over. "Man, this is a sweet ride. How much did this baby cost? Or do you get them free from SHIELD? Your dad used to have some killer wheels."

Marcus stared at him. "No, I bought it. The government's funny about not handing out hundred-grand sports cars. You mind me asking how you know my father? You don't much seem like you're in the trade."

"What, a spy? Naw. I'm an ex-con, Nick busted me. Oh, don't worry," Scott said, seeing the concern on Marcus's face. "That was a long time ago. I'm totally straight now, scouts honor."

Marcus pulled the car off to the shoulder, skidding to an abrupt stop. He turned to his passenger.

"Okay. What we're about to attempt here is a federal crime. You know that, right?"

"Sure."

"Then I need you to convince me you know what the hell your doing or I scrub this mission, right now."

"No problem," Scott said. "You're going to get me into server room of SHIELD's data center, then I'm going to jack their system and get all the juicy secret sauce from under their noses. Couple hours later, you'll come back to pick me up, and we'll walk out without anyone knowing a thing."

Marcus took a deep breath. "How, exactly, are you going to do all that? See, I'm a senior SHIELD officer, on special assignment from the Director to check their security protocols, so I'll have no trouble getting in. What I don't know is how I'm going to get _you_ inside. I need specifics."

"Oh, that's simple," Scott said, opening his backpack. He took out something that looked like a shiny metal football helmet. With antennas, and eye goggles. "I'm Ant-Man. Didn't your pop tell you?"

Marcus laughed. "No."

"Nick's still got his sense of humor, I see." Scott reached into his pocket. "Here," he said, handing something to Marcus.

"Looks like a pack of gum. What is it?"

"It's a pack of gum. I'll be in it. When you get to the server room, help yourself to a stick, and I'll take it from there. When you come back, help yourself to another stick, I'll hop back in, and off we'll go."

"Okay," Marcus said, a little uncertainly. "SHIELD's security sensors are state-of-the-art. You're sure you can beat them?"

"I'll be roughly the size of an electron. So, yeah, I'll be fine."

"But how will you access the system without their knowing? How will you even operate an interface at that size, or—"

Scott put his hand on Marcus's shoulder. "Marcus. Do you know anything about spin wave function, the Hilbert space vector matrix, or quantum entanglement?"

"No."

Scott smiled. "I do. You get me in there, I'll do the rest."

Marcus chuckled. "Alright. But there's always a risk of getting caught. Mind if I ask why you're willing to do this?"

"I told you your dad busted me, right?"

Marcus nodded. Scott went on.

"He also got me out on early release. He hooked me up with Hank Pym and helped me get my life straightened out. Nick Fury says he needs help…I'm there."

Marcus took a moment to let that sink in. "Alright. I'll have us there in a few minutes."

"Cool. I'm going to get in the pack of gum," Scott said, slipping the helmet on. "Brace yourself, it's going to get weird."

Before Marcus could reply, Scott blinked out of sight, and the air in the car sucked inwards, making a small 'pop'. Almost imperceptible, he felt the pack of gum in his hand move a fraction. A voice came over his car's sound system. It was Scott.

"Okay, I'm settled in. Let's go."

Marcus slipped the pack into his pocket. "Wait," he said. "This isn't going to suffocate you, is it?"

Scott laughed. "No, I'll be fine."

"One last question. Why a pack of gum?"

"Because I ate the candy bar."

Marcus started the car and headed off to the SHIELD data center, shaking his head and chuckling softly. In the short time since he'd reconnected with his father, his life had grown infinitely stranger and more interesting.

* * *

The United States Capitol Building

Sam Wilson walked into his office as his usual brisk pace, his thoughts on the upcoming meeting he would be chairing later in the afternoon. He saw the people sitting in the waiting area as he walked past. Senator's often had visitor from lobbyist and political hangers-on, but these were young people, high school age, or maybe college, probably a couple judging by how closely they were sitting together. Kids wanting to interview him for their school paper, more than likely. Whenever possible he made time for such things, but today his schedule was jampacked. Maybe he could give them a few minutes before his committee meeting. He stopped at his secretaries' desk.

"Any messages why I was out, Rita?"

"On your desk, Senator Wilson."

He motioned with his eyes, dropping his voice to a near silent whisper.

"_Who are the kids?_"

Rita slipped a piece of paper across her desk, with two names written on it: _Grant Riley, _and _Allison Kenner. _Below their names, she had written the word: _Oregon. _Sam stared at his secretary, a mystified look of his face. She spoke, making her voice as whisper silent as possible.

"_He say's you used to be friends with his parents. He seems very genuine, Senator."_

Sam pretended to read some papers from Rita's desk, glancing from the corner of his eye at the boy and girl. He was a big kid. There was something familiar about him, Sam thought. Riley? Oregon? He couldn't for the life of him imagine who it might be. He should be in his office right now, preparing for his meeting. He shook his head slightly, keeping his voice to a whisper.

"_I'm just too busy today. You'll have to shoo them away."_

Rita's eyes became doe-like.

"_They've been waiting all afternoon," _she whispered._ "They're really very sweet, Senator. I…I think they need help. Can't you make just a minute for them?"_

Sam sighed. Most Senators used the rear entrance to their offices to avoid just this sort of happenstance. He took the note and turned it over, writing on it: _Wait five minutes, then send them in. Do this again and I'm keeping your Christmas bonus._

Rita looked up at him, her smile beaming. Sam frowned, and walked into his office.

A pile of messages waited on his desk; post-it notes, memo pads. He'd been trying to get Rita to use the Senate memo program on her computer for the past year, but that was going nowhere. Rita had a mind like a steel trap, able to juggle a dozen important tasks at one time and not let a single item fall. She could remember the names of everyone she met, their birthdays, their children, their pets. She knew every Senator and Congressman, all their aides, and how to reach them anytime, day or night. She could memorize every line of every piece of legislation that passed her desk, recall all appropriate legal statues, and quote Shakespeare from memory… but she was hopeless with computers.

Sighing, he sat at his desk, scooping the messages into the top drawer. He had an Appropriations meeting to prepare for, and an interview with Anderson Cooper after that. And here he was, making time for a couple of kids whose parents he might or might not know. _Ah, me_, he thought. He sat for a moment, enjoying the quiet, when a knock came from his door. Rita popped her head in.

"Senator Wilson? Can you spare a moment to speak with a pair of visitors?"

Sam put on his best smile. "Of course. Send them in, Mrs. Skiffington."

Rita ushered the kids in, a handsome pair, Sam noted. The boy certainly looked familiar. Sam stood, extending his hand.

"I'm Sam Wilson."

The boy shook first. Strong grip. "I'm Grant Riley," he said. "This is my friend, Allison."

"Allison Kenner," the girl said, offering her hand.

"It's nice to meet you both. Sit down, please," Sam said, motioning to the chairs set around his desk. "Can I get you anything? Cokes? Water? Some juice? Rita, could you bring these young folks something to drink?"

"Right away, Senator Wilson. I just want to remind you that you only have a few minutes to spare," she said. "You have your Appropriations meeting to prepare for," she added, hurrying out of the office. Sam smiled. Her Christmas bonus just doubled.

"Well," Sam said, sitting down. He looked at the boy. "I understand your parents and I know one another, is that right, son?"

"Yes, sir. You knew them, a long time ago."

"You'll have to refresh my memory. I can't recall knowing anyone by the last name of Riley."

"It's my mother's name, Senator Wilson. Sharon Riley."

"Oh. I don't seem to remember that name, either. How exactly did I know your parents?"

Before the boy could answer, the door opened, and Rita came in, bringing a tray that held cans of soda, glasses of fruit juice, and a bowl of granola. She set it in front of the guests.

"Here you are, enjoy. Senator, I'll buzz you in five minutes, to give you time to prepare for you meeting," she said, before bustling out the door.

"Please," Sam said, motioning to the refreshments. "Help yourselves."

The kids left the tray untouched, their expressions tense, troubled, somehow. The boy spoke.

"I know you're a busy man, Senator, thank you for making time for us. We…we're in trouble, sir."

"What kind of trouble?"

The girl spoke next. "There's a man after us, a killer. He took me hostage several days ago. Grant saved me, we barely escaped with our lives. He's been chasing us across country, and we need help." She stopped, seeing their hosts strained expression. "It's true, sir, you have to believe me."

"Okay," Sam replied, "I believe you need help. It's obvious something serious is troubling you." He reached for his phone. "I'm going to call in the Capital Police. They'll be able to help you with this man, I promise."

"No sir," the boy said, shaking his head. "Not this man. I think you know him. He calls himself Crossbones."

Sam stared at the boy. "Crossbones? Did I hear you correctly?"

"Yes, sir. A big man. Wears a black and white outfit, a skull mask. He's a killer. And he's after us."

The office was quiet. Sam sat still, looking at the boy, his face hauntingly familiar. "Son…you say your mother's name was Riley?"

"Riley was her mother's maiden name. You knew as Carter. Sharon Carter."

Sam sat back in his chair, slowly. Sharon Carter. His heart seemed to skip a beat. He looked again at the boy, recalling a face from a long-ago memory. A thought came to him, one his mind rebelled at and told him was impossible. But the face before him, and the one from his memory, whispered otherwise. Sam sat, and looked at the boy, truly seeing him now. His hands felt cold, and his scalp dry.

"Your father," Sam said, his voice quavering slightly. "Who was he?"

"I never knew him, sir, he died before I was born, but I was named after him. His name was Steven Grant Rogers."

Sam stared at the boy in utter silence, until the buzzing intercom jolted him back to the moment. Rita's cheery voice came over the speaker.

"Senator? I just wanted to remind you of your meeting, sir. Shall I see your guests out?"

Sam looked at the boy, then the girl, seeing the tension in their faces, the haggard look that lay beneath their attempt to conceal it, aided by their youth. He looked again at the boy. How had he not noticed that face? His frame, the way he held himself, even the way he walked. His voice was the same as the one that sometimes echoed in his memory, even now, eighteen years gone. How had he not noticed?

"Senator?" Rita asked. "Your meeting sir?"

"Call Senator Jensen, please," Sam answered. "Ask if she can chair the meeting for me. Then clear my schedule for the rest of the day, and send for some sandwiches for me and my guests, please."

"Sandwiches, sir?"

"Yes, Mrs. Skiffington. That will be all, thank you."

Sam shut the intercom off. The boy and the girl—Grant, and Allison, he reminded himself—were holding hands, their expression showing relief. It came to Sam that relief was something he was unlikely to feel anytime soon. He sat back in his chair and spoke.

"I knew your father very well, Grant. I…loved him like a brother. You look like him, you know. Very, very much."

"Yes sir. My mother tells me that. Please, can you help us? This man, Crossbones, he's killed several people trying to get to me. He said something about a taking me to a woman called Viper, and…I need your help. We both do," the boy said, pulling the girl close.

Sam felt memory pressing on him, as a chill went down his spine. In the corner of his office, a flag hung on the wall. His eye went to it, its colors seeming somehow more vibrant to him. Alive.

_…He died before I was born, but I was named after him…His name was Steven Grant Rogers…_

Sam looked at the boy again and found his voice.

"I'll do all I can to help you, Grant. You and Allison, both. Now, I want you to start from the beginning, and tell me everything."


	12. Chapter 12 Where the Streets Have No Nam

.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**I'm pleased to announce two special guests to the story: James Howlett, and Chance Summers. These amazing characters were created by the talented Cannucklehead Cowgirl, and robbiepoo2341, who have approximately a gazillion stories published on this site, some written solo, many collaborations. They specialize in X-Men fics, and they are simply fantastic. Give them a read; you won't be disappointed. When it came time for next generation heroes to enter this story, I immediately thought of CC's and robbie's amazing creations, and I was _thrilled_ when they aggreged to "loan" James (son of Wolverine and K) and Chance (son of Cyclops and Annie) to the growing adventure of Grant Rogers, son of Captain America and Sharon Carter, Agent 13. CC and robbie assisted with some of the sparkling prose and dialogue involving their special babies. This is gonna be fun! Now...on with the show!**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

**Where the Streets Have No Names**

Alexandria, Virginia

Sam pulled onto the stone-paved drive, the car's headlights bright on the iron and brass gate before him. He slowed to a stop as the gate rose, catching the last rays of the setting sun. As the car idled, he glanced into the rearview mirror, making eye contact with his young guests.

"I imagine you two are hungry?"

Grant and Allison nodded in agreement. There was still a trace of apprehension in their eyes, Sam noted, a remnant of the terrible strain they had been under, but he was pleased to see relief there, also.

"Dinner won't be long," Sam said, easing the car forward, the gate silently closing behind them. "No one goes hungry in the Wilson household. That's the family motto."

He steered the car up the driveway, which winded around a stand of bushes and flower beds, until it crested the small hill, bringing the house into full view. It was a stately two-story home, its brick walls a blend of rose-red and terracotta brown, well faced with large, white-framed windows, adorned with shutters of dark oak. The slate roof spouted several chimneys, giving a homey appearance that was accentuated by the ivy draping in thick ropes on the white columns of the portico. The front door was pale green, warm and inviting. Though it was a residential neighborhood, the lots were large, with trees and shrubbery lining the borders, affording privacy.

"You have a beautiful home," Allison said. "We're both very grateful for you taking us in, and for the food and everything…but I just have to call my folks before I do anything."

"I've had the FBI contact them, to let them know you're okay," Sam said. "I think I should talk to them next. Hopefully, it will set their minds at ease knowing you're with a United States Senator. When you do talk to them, there are certain things you should avoid discussing."

"You mean me," Grant said, a little morose.

"Well…yes," Sam said, tactfully. "We have to be careful not to reveal too much about your heritage." He shifted his gaze back to Allison. "I'm not telling you to lie to your parents, but—"

"I understand," she said. "The less they know, the safer they'll be."

Through the mirror, Sam spied Allison and Grant clasping hands, their affection for one another impossible to mistake. Again, he found himself marveling at how much Grant resembled his father.

The door to the four-bay garage opened and Sam pulled in, shutting off the engine. He turned to his two young guests.

"You've gone through some difficult times these past several days, but you're safe now. That's a promise."

Sam got out of the car. Grant grabbed their bags and small bits of belongings, and he and Allison followed him through the side door, which led into a spacious living room. A tall, beautiful woman stood waiting. She wore a black and green dress and a matching beaded jacket, trimmed in gold, with an elegant silk scarf draped around her shoulders. Her long black hair was swept back, tied with golden braids that matched her simple hoop earrings. She walked forward, smiling warmly.

"Grant, Allison, welcome to our home."

She embraced them both, Allison first, then Grant. She pulled back, her hands on his shoulders, her gaze taking in his features.

"I see your mother and father in you, Grant. They were dear friends. I know this is all new to you, that _we_ are new to you, but your parents were like family to my husband and I…and that means _you _are like family. Both of you. So, I say again, welcome."

Grant smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Wilson."

"Now, is that how you talk to family?" the woman said, frowning. "I am Akelia, and my husband is Sam. Let's have no more 'mister' and 'misses'."

"Better listen to her," Sam said. "She's the boss around here. I'm going to call your folks now, Allison, and answer any questions they have. After that, you're up. Does that sound alright?"

Allison smiled. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Wilson—" she stopped short, seeing the disapproving frown on his face, and then she laughed. "Sorry, I mean, thank you, Sam."

Sam smiled and winked at her. As he walked out of the room, Akelia spoke into the intercom mounted on the wall.

"Jennifer, how is the supper coming?"

"Should be ready in about twenty minutes, ma'am."

"Very good, thank you." She turned to Grant and Allison. "We're having Ka'losh, a beef and vegetable dish, seasoned with Wakandan peppers. Spicy, but not too hot. I assume you're good and hungry?"

"Yes ma'am," Grant said. "I could eat a horse."

"Just like your father, I see. I never knew a man who could eat so heartily as Steven Rogers." She put her hand lightly to Grant's cheek. "You look so much like him."

They stood there for a moment, the room growing quiet. Akelia's smile remained, but her brown eyes grew misty. She took her hand away and quickly turned her head.

"Well. Let me introduce you to the rest of the Wilson household." Cupping her hands to her mouth, she called out. "Children! Come meet our guests."

Seconds later, a young girl and an older boy stepped into the room. Akelia walked behind them, laying a hand on their shoulders, ushering them forward.

"Steven, Kiesha, say hello to Grant and Allison."

The boy nodded, his hands in his pockets. "Sup."

His mother arched an eyebrow at her son, her smile cool, her eyes hard. He shuffled uncomfortably and took his hand from his pocket, extending it to Grant.

"Hi. I'm Steven. My friends call me Steph."

Grant took his hand and shook. "Nice to meet you, Steph."

"You too," the boy said. A little less than his father's six-foot height, he had a slim athletic build. His hair was short, shaved in a fade around his ears, and he had his mother's darker coloring. He extended his hand to Allison next, who took it and shook, but before either of them could speak, his young sister bounded forward, bubbling with energy.

"It's nice to meet you both," she said. She stood before Grant, eyeing him head to toe. "Gosh, you're tall. I hope I'll be tall when I get older. My mom and dad are tall, but my aunt Shuri is tiny, maybe I'll take after her. I'm going to be an actress, and I think height helps you command the stage. Of course, there are lots of great actors who are shorter, but still, I think being tall helps. Mostly, it's about having 'presence', so that's what I'm working on. I turn thirteen this December, and I think that's the best age to start acting, because you aren't really mature enough to connect with your emotions until you get to a certain age. Who are your favorite actors?"

Grant stood, flummoxed. "Well…I don't really know. I don't watch that many movies, I guess."

Kiesha stared at him, her mouth open. "Oh, we'll change that. My favorite actors are Viola Davis and Audra McDonald, I've seen everything they've done on film, and I got to see Audra on the stage last month, she's just the greatest. She signed my autograph book. I also have Denzel Washington, Indina Menzel, and Chris Evans. I can show you later."

Her brother groaned. "Kiesha, he doesn't want to see your autograph book."

The girl made a face at him. "You don't know. I bet he'd love to see it, wouldn't you, Grant?"

Before Grant could reply, Kiesha turned to Allison. "You can see my autograph book too, Allison. Oh, I love your hair—do you dye it, or is it natural?"

"It's natural," Allison said, smiling. "I like your hair, too."

"Thank you. I wish I could wear it like you—it looks just like Katherine Hepburn, she's my other favorite actor, but she's from the olden days, like back in the nineteen thirties. Do you know her?"

"Sure, I love old movies. I thought she was great as Jo in Little Women."

Kiesha's eyes lit up. "Oh, I love that movie! We can watch it after supper! Would you like to see my room? Hey, maybe you can sleep there tonight—I have loads of room. Is that okay, mom?"

"Why don't we let Allison decide on that later," Akiela said. "Right now, she's waiting to talk with her parents."

Akiela looked at Allison, her eyes warm and sympathetic. "After you've spoken with your parents, you can freshen up for supper. And please," she whispered, leaning in. "Feel free to sleep wherever you are most comfortable, in one of the guest rooms, or with my daughter if you want. I warn you, though, she will likely talk your ear off."

Allison laughed. "I'd be happy to stay with her. Some girl talk would be fun."

Kiesha cheered with delight, but her mother quickly quieted her; Sam had stepped into the room, the phone cupped in his hand.

"Allison…if you're ready, your folks are anxious to speak with you. You can talk in my study."

Allison froze, her expression caught between anxiousness and uncertainty. Grant took her hand and leaned in, kissing her cheek.

"Go on, sweetie."

Allison nodded, and walked off, following Sam.

The room grew quiet, and Grant shifted uncomfortably, feeling everyone's eyes on him. Akiela spoke.

"Steven, why don't you show Grant to the guest rooms? I'm sure he would like to put his things away and freshen up."

"And I can show him my autograph book," Kiesha said.

"Later, dear," Akiela said, putting her hand on her daughter's shoulder with gentle strength.

"Let me get that," Steph said, reaching out for one of Grant's bags. "I'll hook you up with the room next to mine, it's got its own bathroom. Bad news is it's stocked with fancy Wakandan soap and shampoo. You know how it is with moms," he said, casting a look at his mother. "They think everyone wants to smell like lavender."

Grant smiled at the jibe, though his heart wasn't in it. He glanced at the closed door of the study, wishing he could help Allison in the difficult task of explaining to her parents everything that had happened these past few days, but he could hardly make sense of it himself. In the past few weeks, everything in his life had changed, and he was still racing to catch up. He thought of his own mother, realizing how much he missed her. The truth was, he was homesick. The Wilson's were a great family, but despite the warm welcome he and Allison had received, he would give anything to be home right now, buried under the hood of his pickup, waiting for Allison to come over, where they would spend the evening holding each other under the stars. A question pressed itself on his mind, unsettling him; would he ever see the farm again, or was that part of his life gone forever? His father had lived in that quiet farmhouse, dreaming of a life he would never live. Fate stepped in and set his father on a path he could never have anticipated. Was that his fate now, as well? Sighing quietly, Grant followed Steph up the stairs.

* * *

New Jersey

Kate pulled the SUV into the deserted parking lot, bringing the vehicle to a stop. Before them, just visible in the fading sunlight, was a slightly derelict building, the only structure on the lonely stretch of road. Kate turned to Sharon.

"This should make a good base of operations. Recognize it?"

Sharon smiled. "Your father's old warehouse."

"Mine, now. Minus the Hydra weapons you made him give up, of course."

Clint poked his head from the backseat. "Think maybe they left a few lying around? A little hardware might come in handy."

"Not to worry, Kate said, shutting the engine off. "I've spent a lot of time undoing my fathers' mistakes, in the business world, and otherwise. Let me show you what I've done with this place."

They got out of the car, Kate in the lead, and made their way to the shipping bay doors. Kate took a card from her pocket and passed it over a scanner mounted on the wall. The doors opened, and they walked inside. The interior stood in contrast to the outside of the building; clean, well lit, and organized, stocked with computers and communication equipment. Crates lined the walls, and vehicles sat off to the side: motorcycles, cars, an armored SUV. Set on a landing pad beneath a massive skylight were several sky-cycles, and a sleek helicopter. Kate spoke up.

"I needed a change of pace, so I took a sabbatical from the Avengers and X-Men and struck out on my own. That's when I equipped this place."

Sharon walked over to the aircraft. "Looks a little like a Mark II Infiltrator," she said, examining it.

"It is," Kate answered. "Or it was. I picked it up cheap when SHIELD switched to the Mark III."

"There's a reason they upgraded," Sharon said. "The Mark II was fast, and it's weapons system was topnotch, but the stealth and computer systems were faulty."

"Not anymore," said a voice behind them. They all turned, seeing a young man approaching. "I've upgraded the software and modified the stealth," he said. "She's state-of-the-art now. Better, actually."

Kate walked to meet the young man, putting her hand on his shoulder as she turned to the others. "Sharon, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is James Howlett."

The young man, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, was nearly six feet in height, possessing a trim, muscular build. His glossy brown hair had a coarse wolf-like quality, and his features, while attractive, were likewise feral. His appearance might have seemed menacing, if not for his eyes, which were friendly and filled with curiosity and intelligence. Sharon extended her hand to the boy, and he took it and shook.

"You did this work?" Sharon asked, motioning to the helicopter.

The boy smiled. "Yeah. I like a challenge. Flight systems aren't my specialty, but Kate said she wanted it to be sneakier, so..."

"Don't let him snow you, he's got brains to spare," Clint said, grinning as he slapped a hand to the boy's shoulder. "How you doing, James?"

"Good, thanks. Kate didn't tell me you were part of this deal, senior hawk, or I would have installed a chair lift on the chopper."

"Funny, junior. You know me, I'm like a bad penny, always showing up when you least expect. How're your folks?"

"They _say _they're up to their necks in work, but you know how they are. They've been in Ontario the past couple weeks, working with the new Alpha Flight team for Uncle Mac."

"Wait," Sharon said, scrutinizing the boy's features. "Your parents are Logan and K?"

The boy nodded with a grin. Sharon looked at Kate, her expression perplexed. "You called in Wolverine's son for tech support?"

"I called in _James_ because as tech-support goes, he's hard to top. He also knows every young hero in the game today. Trust me, if anyone is suited to help on this mission, it's him."

Sharon nodded, and turned to the young man. "Sorry about that. I'm grateful for your help, James."

"You don't know me, I understand. Maybe I should give you some background since those two think it's funny to throw me at people with no context. So...I've been mentored by Tony Stark since I was ten. He convinced my folks to let me work with him when they weren't training me themselves, so I know my stuff, even if I don't always look like it. I can show you the schematics on the chopper."

"In a moment," Sharon said. "We should discuss the mission first."

"Yeah, Kate was a little vague on the details, other than it was serious. What can you tell me?"

Sharon paused, the spy in her urging secrecy, the mother in her arguing for action. The mother won out. "My son, Grant, is being pursued by dangerous people, and I need help finding him before they do."

"Okay. And they are?"

"Hydra."

"I thought they were defunct," James said. "SHIELD thinks so, anyhow."

"SHEILD is wrong."

James looked thoughtful as he held her gaze, and was about to speak, when Clint beat him to it.

"This is Sharon Carter you're talking to, kid. That name may not mean anything to you, but if you we're to ask your old man, he'd tell you she was the best damned spy in the game. She was offered the Directorship of SHIELD, that's how good she was. If she tells you Hydra is back, you can bet on it."

Kate nodded in agreement. James looked at the woman standing before him. With his heightened senses, he was able to read people; smell their anxiety, judge by the dilation of their pupils and the rhythm of their heartbeats, or the sheen of perspiration, or the other telltale signs people unconsciously exhibit when they were lying or hiding things. This woman gave him nothing outwardly. It took a lot for someone to give him nothing. It took a professional, someone in total control of their body and emotions.

"Okay, Hydra is back. Is _she_ back, too?"

"All the intel says no," Sharon answered. "I have no proof to say otherwise, except for a little voice in the back of my head. I've learned to trust that voice. So, yes, she's back."

James's lip curled. "Viper. My family has history with her."

"I know. Mine, too."

"So, is it her normal games of _torture your kid just to screw with you_, like she'd do for Dad, or is it something else?"

"It's something else," Sharon said. "You and Grant share something in common, James. Famous fathers…and enemies who carry grudges. Grant's father was Captain America. Viper is after him because of the Super Soldier Serum in his DNA."

James's eyes widened in surprise. He nodded his head, slowly. "Ah, yeah, that sounds exactly like something she'd want. But if Grant has the serum, that's a big plus in his favor. No one's come close to duplicating it, and plenty have tried. It has none of the defects or side effects of the knockoffs, just…perfection. I asked my dad about Cap once, wanted to know if he was as good as the stories. He said he was better than the stories, that he was the _best_, period. Trust me, praise doesn't come any higher from Wolverine."

"Captain America was all that," Sharon said, quietly. "But it took years of combat and training for him to get there. No one starts out a legend, not Cap, not even your father. Grant has power, and I've given him training, but he's inexperienced, and alone…and he's facing the most dangerous woman in the world. He's in grave danger."

The room grew quiet, and James took a moment to consider Sharon, taking in the scents she was giving off despite her professional control. Some things couldn't be hidden by anyone, and the anxiety of a mother watching out for her son was one of those base instincts that bled through as easily as the scent of anger or fear.

"Okay, I'm in. But not just for tech support. I'm on the team. Chance, too."

"And he is?"

"Family. Scott Summer's son."

"Powers?" Sharon asked.

"None," James answered, his eyes glittering and hard. "He doesn't need them. He grew up with me. Trained by his dad and mine too. My mom taught him how to shoot and he's got his dad's tactical mind. He's _good_."

"Why him?"

"Why not? Just because he's human doesn't mean he can't keep up."

"_I'm_ human," Sharon said, pointedly, "and believe me, I can keep up. What's the real reason you want him on this team?"

James took a breath. "That history with Viper? He's part of it."

Sharon shook her head. "Personal issues and vendettas lead to sloppy work. I need a team I can depend on, not amateurs looking to settle scores."

James' eyebrows lifted. "He's a crack shot that _my mother _can fall back on. You say your son is in danger—that's not personal to _you_? Chance and I know Viper, which gives us an edge. Look, I'm not just some tech kid, Tony's been pushing for me to join the Avengers since before I passed Dad's test for the X-Men. You want a team for your son? This is how it happens."

Sharon stared hard at the young man. After several seconds of silence, she spoke.

"Call him in. But you follow my orders, or I bounce you both, and I won't be slow about it. After, let's go over the helicopter schematics. I want to check your work and take her for a flight. I don't go into combat without knowing my team, or my equipment."

Sharon turned and walked away, going over to the weapons locker where she examined the gear. James looked to Kate, who was smirking at him.

"It's her show, James. Are you in?"

"I am. Hey, when you have a mom like K, it takes more than a badass SHIELD agent to shake you up." He turned and looked towards Sharon, who was breaking down an energy rifle. He shook his head, smiling wryly. "Actually, if it wasn't for the blonde hair, and the extra foot of height, I'd swear they were sisters."

* * *

Alexandria

The dinner was excellent, and Grant and Allison ate their fill. Grant, in fact, ate several people's fill, much to Kiesha's amazement. Her mother had to squeeze the young girl's hand beneath the table several times to stop her from staring, goggle-eyed. The change in Allison's demeanor was marked; finally getting to speak with her parents had relieved an enormous amount of stress from her and she joined in on the friendly conversation, laughing at the stories and gentle family jokes that drifted around the dinner table. Grant also felt a measure of relief as the evening wore on, his earlier melancholy gone, mostly. As the dinner plates were cleared away by the kitchen staff, Akiela spoke.

"There's cheesecake for dessert," she said. "Fresh this morning from Courtney's Bakery, the best in the city."

"Oh, I couldn't eat another bite," Allison said. "I'm full, honest."

"Um, me too," Grant said, not entirely honestly.

"Well, if you change your mind, the kitchen's open all night," Sam said, looking at Grant and Allison as he rose from the table. "I'm sure you'd like to unwind. The game room's downstairs, you can watch movies, play video games, ping-pong, whatever you want. Don't worry about noise, it's soundproofed. The kids can show you around."

"Thanks," Allison said, "But I'm beat. I think I need a quiet night. I doubt I'll be awake much longer."

"Do you want to stay in my room?" Kiesha asked, hopefully. "We can watch anything you want, and when you get tired, you can sleep in my bed. I'll put the big throw on the floor and sleep there. I don't mind—it's what I do when I have sleepovers with my friends."

"Well, it sounds nice, but…" Allison looked over to Grant. He could read in her eyes that she wanted to take Kiesha up on her offer.

"Go on," Grant said, kindly. "You deserve to relax."

"Okay, but if you want to talk, or anything, I can…"

"Have fun," he said. "We'll talk in the morning."

Kiesha squealed in delight. Pecking quick kisses to her mother and father, she took Allison's hand and pulled her towards the stairs. Allison gently broke free and walked over to Grant, her face flushing a light shade of red as she leaned over and kissed his cheek. As she hurried off with Kiesha, Grant felt his own cheeks flush; Sam and Akiela were watching from the corner of their eyes, smiling broadly. Steph got up from his chair, looking at Grant.

"If you just want to chill in your room, that's cool, but your welcome to hang with me. We can listen to music, watch movies, whatever."

"Yeah," Grant said, hearing the genuine tone in the boy's offer. "That sounds good. I kind of need to veg."

"Cool," Steph said, smiling easily.

He pushed his chair in and walked over to his parents, kissing his mother's cheek. Grant felt a pang in his heart seeing such open affection. He loved his mother deeply, but this kind of frank, easy expression of love was something that never came easily with her. Sharon was caring, and God knows she was protective, but simple, gentle love, was foreign to her. From his youngest memories, Grant had always been aware of a distance to his mother, as if part of her heart were walled off, and inaccessible. She loved him, he knew that beyond doubt—she would die for him if need be; that was something he knew even before that night on the farm, when she fought like a tiger to save his life…but part of her heart always seemed separate, and inaccessible. And when he thought of his father, a man he was only now learning about, he began to suspect why.

Steph moved to Sam, giving him hug that was short and manly, but filled with a son's love for his father. Grant felt the small pang in his heart grow. He quickly looked away.

"'Night mom, 'night pop's," Steph said. He walked to the stairs, and Grant got up to follow him, but he stopped and turned back around.

"Sam, Akiela, I just want to…I mean, for everything you've done for me, for Allison, well…I want to say…"

"I know, Grant," Sam said, gently. He put his hand on his wife's shoulder, and she laid her cheek against it, smiling at Grant.

"We are so glad you are here, Grant. Have a goodnight's sleep, and we will see you in the morning. We will work things out, I promise."

Grant smiled at her and her husband, and then followed Steph up the stairs.

Sam and Akiela Wilson stayed in the now empty dining room, Sam beside his wife, both staying silent for a long pass of time.

"He's a good young man," Sam said, quietly. "Decent, thoughtful. He's…"

"He is his father," Akiela said, simply.

"Yes. I still can't quite believe it. Steve had a son."

Sam's hand remained on Akiela's shoulder, until she felt a change in his touch, a tension. She waited for him to come to it, and a moment later, he did.

"Why the hell did she keep this from us?"

"I don't know, my husband. I'm sure she did what she thought best."

"Don't make excuses for her. She was Fury's perfectly calibrated weapon, a cold, calculating super spy, who never knew how to switch it off and be human."

Akiela stood, putting a hand to her husband's cheek, and her finger resting lightly on his lips. "Sam, quiet, please. Grant might hear you. Remember how keen Steven's hearing was."

"Maybe he _should_ hear," Sam replied. Despite his words, he lowered his voice. "I always blamed Steve for why they could never work things out, build a life together…but she was always half the problem—at least. A cold-hearted spy."

"Don't speak so, Sam. Sharon is our friend."

Sam looked at her, his brown eyes flashing angrily. "Do friends keep secrets like this? How many times have we spoken to her over the years, and never a word about Grant? My God, she stood right here in this house two years ago, giving presents to our kids, drinking Christmas toasts with us, and she never said a damned word. Steve had a son, and I never knew of him until this very day. She had no right to keep this secret."

"No right? She is the boy's mother."

"And Steve was my brother. We fought together, we blead together. On the day he died, Steve held my hand and told me to take care of my son. Well, today I just learned that _he _had a son…and I was never there for _him._ Grant is a part of our family, Akiela, and we never knew he existed. That isn't right, and you know it."

"No…it isn't right. But try to see it from Sharon's point of view. She also loved Steven, and she also held his hand the day he died, but while you came home to me, Sharon went home to an empty house. And later, as she tried to pick up the pieces of her broken heart, she learned she was carrying his child. Can you imagine how she must have felt? How heavy her burden must have been?"

Sam stood, silent. Akiela went on.

"I…I feared so many times that such a thing would happen to me, that _I _would be left alone. That night when you and Steven battled the Red Skull, with all the world tottering on the brink of destruction, I sat alone in our apartment in Harlem, cradling the unborn baby in my belly, praying you would come home to us. You did, thank God…but Steven did not. And Sharon was left alone, to care for the son of the man she loved and watched die. I can't even imagine the pain she must have…"

Akiela broke off as a sob caught in her throat. She sat, putting her hand to her eyes, staunching the tears before they could fall. Sam knelt, putting his arms around her. After a time, Akiela pulled back and spoke, her eyes red, but the tears gone.

"I know how much you loved Steven. I loved him, too. We can be angry at what happened, we can even be angry at Sharon for keeping the truth from us, but we must finish with it, now, tonight. My mother taught me to never sleep with anger in my heart, lest it take root and grow into something worse. However difficult she sometimes makes it, Sharon is our friend, and we will not let this thing turn our hearts against her," she said, her eyes filled with tender strength. "What matters is that we know Grant _now_. And we will do all we can to aid him, yes?"

Sam chuckled, looking deeply into his wife's eyes. "Yes. How did you get to be so smart?"

Akiela smiled. "You married a Wakandan princess. We're born wise, didn't you know that?"

Sam cradled her face, tenderly. "I know that I'm the luckiest man in the world. Akiela Subria Ndiaye, fourth princess of the House of Panther…I love you."

Akiela put her hands to her husband's face. "Samuel Thomas Wilson, protector of Harlem and Senator of the people of New York…I love you."

The met in a kiss that was tender and yet strong, deep with an essence that comes only from long years. More than just love, it was a kiss built of commitment, and shared sacrifice, one for the other, and both for their family. Silently, the kiss ended. Hand in hand, Sam and Akiela padded up the stairs, and walked down the long hallway, which led to their bedroom. They closed the door without a sound.

**. . .**

The dark SUV stopped at the end of the street, the motor rumbling softly. From behind the deeply tinted windows, a pair of night-vision binoculars trained on the house. The place was quiet, the lights out, except for one upstairs room. The man smiled; that's where the boy was, he was sure of it. Place was wired against intruders, no doubt. All the houses in this neighborhood were, it came with the territory. Houses of diplomats, congressmen…senators. This particular senator would have a state-of-the-art security system: motion sensors, infrared, lazar optics, the works. The man chuckled. State-of-the-art systems would put off any burglar working places like this, but they were a joke to him. He could get in with ease, kill them all. Killing the senator, that would be fun, an old itch scratched, but killing the boy? That would be sublime, like whiskey after a good meal, or a smoke after screwing a beautiful woman. He would take his time with the boy, and make him pay full freight for all the trouble he'd caused these past several days. Yeah, killing the boy would be good…but not tonight.

There was a knock on the window. The man cursed; he'd been so engrossed with casing the house he hadn't noticed the cruiser pull up behind him. The flashers weren't on, the cop wasn't expecting trouble—because trouble rarely came to neighborhoods like this one, where wealth and political power kept evil things at bay. Usually. No, this cop wasn't expecting trouble, he was just being cautious. The man powered down the window. The young cop nodded at him, shining his flashlight.

"Hello, sir. I noticed you've been parked for a few minutes with your motor running. Mind if I ask your business?"

"Sure, officer. I was looking for the Washington Monument, and I kind of got lost. Is it around here?"

The officer's face grew stern. "Okay, I want to see some I.D."

"Sure thing," the man said, smiling. He handed him a card. The young cop took it, shining his light on it. The card had no text; only a single image. The cop's expression quickly becoming perplexed.

"Is this some kind of joke? This is the Hydra logo."

"No, no joke. I'm here for Senator Sammy Wilson, and his house guests. Oh, don't worry, I won't bother them tonight. I'll come back later to kill them."

The cop's eyes went wide. He dropped his flashlight and jerked his hand for the firearm at his side, his moves fast. The man in the SUV chuckled, darting his massive arm out with lightning speed, driving the point of his knife into the young cop's throat. He gurgled and fell, dead before he hit the pavement. Chuckling, Crossbones flicked the blood from his knife, and sheathed it. He looked again at the house at the end of the road, with its illusion of security behind its bronze gate and homey brick walls.

"You made it to safe harbor, kid, good for you. You rest up tonight, you earned it. Round two is coming, Grant…you better be ready."

Laughing, Crossbones drove away, leaving the dead cop lying in a pool of blood.


End file.
